


A More Gradual Descent

by Liannabob



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Angelic self-actualization, Angst, Episode: s03e11 City of Angels?, F/M, Hell Loops (Lucifer TV), M/M, Non-Graphic Smut, Pre-Canon, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-01-29 12:23:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 74,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21410134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liannabob/pseuds/Liannabob
Summary: Amenadiel brings Samael back to Hell.Again.   And again.   And again.
Relationships: Amenadiel/Mazikeen (Lucifer TV), Lucifer/Other(s)
Comments: 197
Kudos: 440
Collections: Lucifer (TV) Foxy's Collection of Background Fics





	1. Chapter 1

Eve arrives in Heaven.

She is wide-eyed and adorable, attention flitting from face to face, her smile wide and genuine. She is curious when Uriel tells her that she’s died, but not alarmed. When he tells her that she will find Adam inside the gates, her smile dims a little, but not her inquisitiveness.

“Where is Samael?” she asks.

Uriel flinches.

The other angels grow quiet and stare.

Amenadiel turns away, not wanting to hear how his brother will deal with _that_ guileless and painful question. Nonetheless, the lash of Ramiel’s voice, blunt and unkind, catches him as she informs Eve that Samael was banished from Heaven.

He does not know how Eve responds. He has already spread his wings and has willed them to take him elsewhere.

Amenadiel doesn’t ever seek Eve out when he roams inside the Silver City. He does not want to see her.

Amenadiel doesn’t blame humans for Samael’s downfall, but they - Eve, and humans like her - are, he knows, the catalyst behind it. 

Humans did not change Samael. They did not _make_ him fall.

Amenadiel avoids Eve anyway.

~*~

Amenadiel feels a ripple in Earth below. Some change in the pressure; a shift in the balance of power. When he asks Azrael if she felt that, she shrugs.

When God commands Amenadiel to take Samael back to Hell, Amenadiel understands what he had felt.

His heart sinks, even as he accepts his orders.

Finding Samael is not particularly difficult. Despite his disgrace, Samael is still an archangel. He is Michael’s twin and one of the most powerful creatures in existence. That power bleeds into the air around him.

He finds Samael speaking to a human woman, her poise and features so similar to Eve that Amenadiel has little doubt she is Eve’s daughter, or granddaughter, or great-granddaughter. He is not quite sure how quickly humans grow or breed. 

The woman is balancing a water jug on her hip, listening attentively as Samael speaks. She is smiling, charmed by him, as Eve had been charmed by him. 

Samael had clearly learned _nothing_ from being cast out. 

Anger swells in Amenadiel. 

God had commanded Amenadiel to bring Samael back to Hell, but had given no instructions on what to say to His humans. Amenadiel errs on the side of caution – God has shown a keen interest in observing what the humans do, much to Mother’s growing ire. He slows time nearly to a stop. He will be unseen by mortal eyes.

For a moment, Samael does not notice him, or that the woman he speaks to is frozen. 

“-such a lovely experience! Truly, I’d be happy to… show… you…” He trails off, realizing something is amiss.

He cocks his head at the human woman at first, as if he believes her somehow responsible. He whips around quickly, though, eyes widening as he sees Amenadiel.

“Brother!” he greets, as if he’s pleased to see him, and it makes Amenadiel’s blood boil.

Slowly, the smile slides off Samael’s bruised face. Both of his lips are split, his right eye blackened. He holds one arm as if it pains him.

“You’re still angry,” Samael says.

Amenadiel is speechless. He gives Samael an incredulous look.

“You _betrayed_ us,” Amenadiel spits, pleased when his brother flinches. “You turned against our Father. What you did was _unthinkable_!”

“Not unthinkable,” Samael hisses back. He was always quick to anger. “Merely unthought. For _far_ too long.” He eyes Amenadiel, and some of that anger shifts into a more pleading expression, enhanced into something pitiful on his battered face. “Do you _still_ not see that I was right? We deserve free will, brother! A chance to choose, to be our own people, unbeholden – like them!” He waves a hand at the young woman.

Amenadiel has heard enough of this.

He is furious with Samael. Furious for what he did to his family, for his folly, for his _refusal_ to admit that he was wrong. Furious that Samael once more ignores God’s commands and has left Hell.

“I’ve been tasked to bring you back where you belong, Samael.”

“You’re taking me back?” he asks hesitantly. There is hope in his eyes that Amenadiel doesn’t understand until he realizes Samael thinks he’s planning to take him back to the Silver City.

“I’m taking you back to Hell!” Amenadiel snarls, beyond patience. Samael’s ignorance to the damage he has wrought is _maddening_.

Samael retreats a step away from him, as if the words pushed him back. 

“What?” he asks. 

Amenadiel does not repeat himself. In a flap of his wings, he closes the distance between them and seizes Samael by his shoulder. Samael pushes against him, startled and clumsy in his retaliation, and Amenadiel’s grip remains firm as he flies them below.

The heat and stench of Hell batter his senses. Amenadiel beats his wings, hovering above the black land. It is an ugly place, fit for Samael’s punishment.

He throws his brother down.

Samael’s cry is an echo of the noise he made when he was thrown from Heaven. It pierces Amenadiel anew – how terribly Samael has wronged them.

His brother’s wings emerge as he tumbles and Amenadiel can see immediately that something is wrong. The angles and arches are the wrong shapes, the feathers are bent – his wings are broken. Badly.

Samael does not catch himself as he falls. He hits the ground hard and does not move.

Later, Amenadiel will try to convince himself that the stab of fear he feels is the fear of having overstepped God’s commands – not concern.

Later, he will think about how painful the flight from Hell to Earth must have been with broken wings.

He will think about the wet, bubbling moans that, at last, issued from Samael's lips – proof that he had survived the fall, and that perhaps his ribs had pierced his lungs.

Amenadiel will push those thoughts aside when he returns home. No good can come of dwelling on them.

Samael is back in the pit where he belongs. Amenadiel doesn't want to think on him anymore.

It is years before Samael returns to Earth again.

~*~

The next time they meet, Amenadiel finds Samael having sex with another human woman. It’s a different continent, a different lineage, and the familiar feeling of anger washes over Amenadiel at the sight of him.

Samael sighs, as if Amenadiel’s arrival is a mere inconvenience to him. He withdraws from the woman’s body, hard and glistening. It is obscene what he’s doing. What he’s done. Amenadiel turns his eyes away.

“Well, then?” Samael asks, jaw jutted stubbornly as he pulls tight the belt of his robe. Frozen in time, the woman sprawled on the ground has her head thrown back in ecstasy, her fingers gripping tufts of grass. Her smile is effulgent.

Samael bears no obvious injuries this time, but there is, Amenadiel tries not to notice, something broken in his gaze. He looks at Amenadiel as if looking through him. It stings, and Amenadiel cannot say why.

“Samael, I’ve –”

“Don’t call me that,” Samael snaps, eyes sharpening.

Amenadiel thinks he sees a reflection of red light buried deep in his brother’s irises. He isn’t sure, but it makes him pause.

“You’re here to take me back to Hell?” Samael asks. When Amenadiel nods, Samael sniffs and looks away. “I am not _of God_, then, am I?” His lip is curled with disgust. He spits their father’s name with contempt.

No, Amenadiel thinks – not contempt. _Hatred_.

Amenadiel slowly shakes his head.

He hasn’t the will to draw this out. He wants to be done with this task, done with Samael. His brother is twisted in ways that Amenadiel cannot and does not want to understand.

“Go back to Hell, brother,” he says. “Or I will drag you there.”

Samael sneers at him.

He spreads his wings – brilliantly white; whole and unbroken. The bladed primaries bristle and spread.

For a moment, Amenadiel believes they will fight. He is ready for it. Part of him is looking forward to it, but –

“You know we’re not allowed to…interact… here on Earth,” Amenadiel says. He spares a brief glance at the woman.

Samael does as well. Looking at her, the posture of his wings changes into something less aggressive.

Samael regards her for a long, long moment. For once, the thoughts that flicker across his face are hard to read.

Finally, he nods.

“Give me a few moments to finish here, Amenadiel.”

He says it like the request is not ridiculous.

“No,” Amenadiel splutters. “Absolutely not. She’s a mortal, Samael, and you’re divi-”

“Don’t _call me_ that!” Samael repeats, angrier this time.

Irritated, Amenadiel snaps back: “What would you have me call you then, brother?”

Samael glares. He looks away, and it’s obvious that he doesn’t have an answer.

“Right,” says Amenadiel, and Samael’s wings bristle at the way he draws out the word. “Well, Sam, I know just the place where you can go think on it.”

“Five minutes,” Samael argues.

Amenadiel inhales to deny him again but Samael interrupts him.

“Five minutes, and I’ll go willingly,” he says. 

Amenadiel hesitates. 

He considers it.

“Five minutes,” he agrees. It’s hardly as though five more minutes of this depravity will make a difference one way or the other, and Amenadiel doesn’t doubt that it would be more of a mess if he and Samael fought instead.

“Deal,” Samael says brightly. There’s an edge to it, to him, and Amenadiel isn’t sure if he’s done the right thing when he flies off and allows time to resume its normal pace.

Initially, he stays close enough that the woman’s moans reach his ears. When Samael’s own cries join the mix, his distaste drives him further away.

He doesn’t understand how Samael can find pleasure in rolling around with these creatures. They’re barely more than animals.

For that matter, Amenadiel doesn’t understand Father’s fascination with them.

The bitter thought makes Amenadiel tighten with apprehension.

He reminds himself that it is not his place to understand. He is meant to serve.

Amenadiel, first-born, serves.

He allows a small measure of time to pass and drifts back to where he left his brother.

There is a ripple if displacement in the air, and Amenadiel is pleasantly surprised to realize Samael has been true to his word. He has left willingly.

Curious, Amenadiel draws close enough to see the woman. The sun is setting and it is easy enough to remain unseen, even without manipulating time.

The woman sighs and stretches. She is unashamed of her nudity as she gathers herself up, balling her simple clothes to carry them with her instead of putting them on. 

She sings to herself as she begins the walk back to her village, and her voice sends a chill through Amenadiel. Her voice is sure and sweet, the melody cheerful, matching the bounce in her step.

There are no words, merely a tune, but it is the quality of her voice that strikes him. 

She sings like an angel.

Amenadiel doesn't know if this is what drew Samael to her, or if it is something he taught her.

He doesn't know which answer is worse.

~*~

Mother asks him about Samael some time later, after the rebellious angel has once again risen to Earth and Amenadiel has once more been sent to return him to Hell.

It is a curious question, because surely, if She wanted to know, all She would need to do is look. Samael makes no effort to hide himself. 

“He is…” Amenadiel pauses, unsure of what to say. Mother’s attention is greedy. Things between Her and Father have felt… off… ever since He created humans. Samael’s disgrace has made things even more brittle and unpleasant.

Amenadiel doesn't want to add any fuel to Her unhappiness. 

“He is… Samael,” Amenadiel hedges. 

Humans have found a way to make intoxicants from fruit juice. When Amenadiel had collected Samael, the angel had been so sloppy with the drink that he’d barely been able to stand upright.

Amenadiel does not know if this is better or worse than finding him having sex.

The Goddess glows with a mix of pleasure and sadness. 

“Good,” She says.

Amenadiel looks at Her brightness and thinks of the despair on Samael's face when he had looked to the Goddess for support as he had stood, defeated, before God. He remembers how She had barely acknowledged what was happening and said nothing in his defense. She had watched with mute neutrality as Samael had been cast out. It must have been one of the last things Samael saw of Heaven before he fell.

Amenadiel wonders why She has chosen now, when it is far too late, to show concern for him. 

~*~

Samael is lying on the grass again, sandwiched between two young men. They stink of sex, but at least Amenadiel hasn't caught Samael in the actual act this time. 

The night is clear and the three of them are looking up at Samael's stars. When Amenadiel slows time, he captures the humans with expressions of pleasure and awe on their faces.

Samael's expression is, perhaps, wistful. Or perhaps he is proud. In the low light, it is hard to say for certain.

“Lucifer,” the archangel says without greeting.

“Pardon?” Amenadiel asks.

Samael turns his head and looks at Amenadiel.

“My name. Lucifer.”

~*~

Their parents fight.

“This will not end well,” Uriel had said to Amenadiel, months ago, as they both retreated in the wake of another argument between the two. Neither parent has had any time for their children in a very long time.

God and Goddess... their tempers are massive. Both are powerful; both are angry.

It leaves a cold feeling of dread in Amenadiel's belly. He does not need Uriel's ominous words to know that things are spiraling out of control. 

When Samael again rises to Earth, Amenadiel is glad for the excuse to leave the Silver City.

This time, he finds Samael perched in a tree on a mountain, overlooking a lake below.

Sam glances up briefly as the falling rain drops slow. They hang in the air, crystalline and fat. Amenadiel has never seen rainfall this heavy before.

“Brother,” Sam greets absently. His attention goes back to the lake below, as if Amenadiel's arrival is a social call.

“Samael, I am here to take you back.”

“Lucifer,” he corrects, ignoring the rest of the sentence.

“Sam, you must stop coming to Earth. Your place is in Hell.”

Sam ignores him completely.

“_Lucifer_,” Amenadiel grits out. “Go back to Hell.”

“There was a village down there,” Lucifer says. He points at the lake and, looking closer, Amenadiel can see debris floating in the swelling waters. Bits of wood that may have been roofs or walls. Woven baskets. Bodies.

“They made this... this _bread_ thing, with fruit in it. And there was a game they played, with...” He waves his hand in a strange pattern. “There was _music._”

He seems genuinely upset.

“Sam - _Lucifer_. They are not your concern. Your charge is over the damned souls. Put these humans out of your mind.”

Lucifer stares at Amenadiel in disbelief. Again, Amenadiel thinks he sees a glint of red light buried deep in his brother’s eyes.

Amenadiel is too on-edge by the tension between his parents to shoulder the burden of dealing with his brother's odd moods as well. He sighs angrily and reaches for Lucifer.

Lucifer scowls ferociously but doesn't fight him. It gentles Amenadiel's grip as he flies them below.

~*~

Amenadiel can discern no rhyme or reason for the timing of Sam – of _Lucifer's_ visits to Earth. Sometimes, months will pass without a disturbance from him. Sometimes years.

Sometimes, it seems as though Amenadiel barely has time to fly back home before Lucifer bucks his duties and leaves the infernal plane again.

The house where he finds Lucifer smells of warm spices, of pigs and excrement, of boiled millet. Having come straight from Heaven, it is an overwhelming jumble to his senses.

The house stands out for its wealth. The walls rise two stories high. It has a courtyard inside its walls in which the pigs are kept.

Lucifer and the woman he is with are both clad in layers of silk, although the woman’s layered tunics are pushed up to her waist. Lucifer’s head is buried between her legs.

Amenadiel sighs.

Lucifer sighs.

When Lucifer rocks back onto his heels to frown over at Amenadiel, his face is obscenely wet.

He says something to Amenadiel that Amenadiel doesn’t understand – the syllables are unfamiliar, even as the exasperated tone is well-known.

“What?” Amenadiel asks.

Lucifer rolls his eyes and changes languages.

“I said: For someone with dominion over time, you have terrible timing, brother.” He wipes his face with his fingers. “We’re almost done here. Why don’t you go have a cup of tea, hmm? Or go see the painted pottery? There’s a family down the road that makes them. Clever things, really.”

He waves a ‘shooing’ gesture at Amenadiel.

Amenadiel’s temper frays. Gritting his teeth, he tries to regain hold of it.

“When God cast you out of Heaven,” he says slowly, ignoring the way Lucifer’s eyes narrow in warning. “He gave you dominion over Hell. It is your _duty_ to tend to that realm, and yet it seems every time I turn my back, here you are, cavorting with humans!”

Lucifer’s eyes blaze red, and there is no denying what Amenadiel sees this time. This is not a trick of the light.

Lucifer rises to his full height. The depths of his eyes burn like Hell’s fires. 

“Do you know what it takes to rule Hell?” Lucifer asks softly. “What I’ve had to do?”

Lucifer cocks his head challengingly. 

But Amenadiel will not be cowed. He is not sympathetic. Lucifer made his terrible choices and it is only right and just that he should suffer the consequences, whatever they may be.

“You rebelled against God,” Amenadiel says. “Did you imagine your punishment would be light for a betrayal that grievous? You’re lucky He didn’t smite you out of existence.”

“_Lucky_,” Lucifer sneers.

“Get back to Hell, Lucifer. And stop coming up to Earth.”

Lucifer’s wings emerge. There is barely room for them within these walls. The feathers brush against the tables and tip over a cooling bowl of porridge.

Amenadiel stares Lucifer down, unyielding.

Still. It is a relief when Lucifer dives down and returns to Hell.

Amenadiel exhales slowly.

The woman, laid out with her silk gripped in pale fists, is spread wide with bliss written across her features.

Ameandiel leaves the house. The road is slightly muddy from recent rainfall and sucks at his sandals. He nearly abandons his quest and returns to Heaven before he reaches his destination. 

The smoke from the kiln identifies the correct location.

Amenadiel steps inside and regards the painted vessels. 

The painted designs are swirls or geometric patterns, painted on the brown clay in red and black dyes. The artistry is competent; the bowls and jugs functional. They are, Amenadiel agrees, clever. 

He is considering a vase that has a small crack at the lip when he feels a ripple of disturbance in the atmosphere. Amenadiel turns his head incredulously in the direction of the woman’s house.

He spreads his wings and, with a sharp snap, takes himself back there. 

Lucifer stands in the doorway, frowning as he regards the frozen tableau inside.

He is much calmer than he was moments ago. Amenadiel supposes the time differential with Hell could answer for that. For Lucifer, it has been weeks since their quarrel.

“You’re still here?” Lucifer says petulantly. “I was sure you’d be gone by now. It’s not like you to linger.”

“I was informed there was pottery that I simply couldn’t miss,” Amenadiel says dryly. He is not amused. 

Lucifer crosses his arms. The silk rumples against his torso. It emphasizes his lean musculature.

“I wasn’t finished here,” Lucifer says. 

Amenadiel has not released time from his hold since he first descended. The woman, visible through the doorway, is still splayed wide where Lucifer left her.

Amenadiel gives Lucifer a disgusted look. 

“Well, yes, of course, _that_, brother, but she was going to teach me to play the sheng. We struck a deal.”

“A deal,” Amenadiel repeats. 

“Give me an hour. I’m a quick study.”

Amenadiel inhales to argue but Lucifer holds up a forestalling hand.

“An hour, and then I’ll go back to Hell and stay there for, oh, let’s see… how about a year?”

“A year as it passes on Earth,” Amenadiel says. 

Lucifer swallows but bounces his eyebrows as if he is surprised but not concerned.

“Agreed.”

When Amenadiel walks away, he worries that he is setting a precedent for these bargains. He should not be allowing Lucifer to stay at all.

Once outside, he allows time to resume.

In the shadows of the setting sun, he listens to the woman cry out in pleasure.

It is followed by a low murmur of conversation in those unusual syllables. They trip easily off Lucifer’s tongue. Languages have always come easily to him.

The music, when it begins, has a strangely mournful quality to it. The notes are played with a steady breath and slide easily, one into the next. 

Amenadiel can hear the difference when the instrument is handed over to Lucifer.

The notes are fumbling at first until Lucifer figures out the right way to produce the sounds. There is more conversation; gentle corrections, a pleased feminine laugh, and Lucifer begins again.

At the end of the hour, he is a skilled player.

The woman is startled to see him when Amenadiel walks inside to collect Lucifer. Amenadiel has not bothered to stop time again. At Lucifer’s hand wave in his direction and a dismissive comment, she relaxes.

Lucifer kisses her on the mouth. He strokes her hair and, while Amenadiel cannot understand the words, he understands that Lucifer is making his goodbyes.

She says something to him and tries to press the instrument into his hands.

Lucifer shakes his head, kisses her again, and walks out without further comment.

Amenadiel walks beside him as they exit.

“Was she offering you the instrument?” Amenadiel asks, slowing time once more so they can leave without being seen.

“Yes,” Lucifer says.

Curiosity pricks at him, even as Lucifer’s demeanor says that questions would be unwelcome.

“Why didn’t you take it?”

Lucifer spreads his wings. The tips of the primaries scrape through the mud, and Amenadiel winces at the sight.

“In Hell, sounds… distort,” he says quietly. “It would be wasted there.”

He flies below.

Amenadiel lingers on the muddy street. The sun has fully set and the stars shine brightly overhead.

He waits to see if Lucifer will return.

He doesn’t.

~*~

Lucifer is drunk the next time Amenadiel finds him on Earth.

“Do you… do you know what they call me, now?” he slurs up at Amenadiel from his sprawl on the pile of cushions. There are dried tear tracks on his cheeks. He has clearly been drinking for a while.

“They say a serpent tempted Eve. A serpent. An evil, low, crawling beast.”

Lucifer tries to rise but loses his balance. He slumps onto the floor.

“They call me _Satan_,” he laughs. There is absolutely no humor in the sound.

Amenadiel scoops his brother up and takes him back to Hell.

~*~

Amenadiel does not know what tips the balance. He was not there for that final straw, but he was there when God cast the Goddess down to Hell.

Even though both parents have been distant and taciturn for such a long time now, it still strikes a blow through all of them.

Uriel presses his lips into a flat line, saying nothing. Amenadiel knows that he saw this coming and is not happy to see it come to pass.

Michael and Gabriel try to speak to God, but God turns away. It is the last time God will speak to any of them for a very long time.

Amenadiel feels cold.

He fears what an alliance between Lucifer and their mother could mean.

Amenadiel flies down to Hell, unprompted.

He is braced for the heat and is surprised when Hell is cold – quite thoroughly and shockingly so. When he lands, Amenadiel shivers and pulls his wings close to his body for warmth.

He looks around, baffled. He had not thought Hell had seasons.

In the dim blue glow, the columnar rocks loom like giants. Movement in the shadows – demons, or lesser creatures. He hears the skitter of pebbles against the rocks as they dart away from him. The sounds echo strangely.

There is a tension in the air that makes Amenadiel move cautiously through the dark landscape.

Damned souls moan and wail in pain and terror behind their doors as he walks by. There is so much suffering here that it makes his skin crawl.

Lucifer’s throne is a massive, towering thing. It is impossible to miss. Amenadiel squints up through the slowly falling ash. He thinks he can see the white gleam of Lucifer’s wings, high up at the top.

Amenadiel wonders if Lucifer is unaware of his presence, or if he is simply ignoring Amenadiel, or if there is another reason his brother would stay on his throne.

Amenadiel shivers. The hairs at the back of his neck prickle. Someone is watching him from the shadows.

He dodges on instinct, missing – barely – the blade as it slashes past his neck. 

His opponent cackles with glee. She is a demon, crouching low in the darkness. The blue light of hell glints off her blade, off her pale and ruined left eye. That side of her face is black and withered.

She sways sinuously from side to side, light on her feet. 

“You don’t belong here,” she tells him, grinning widely. Her teeth seem very white and sharp. She spins her blade in her fingers. It’s a curved, vicious-looking thing. 

She glances past him and pouts. Her posture turns petulant and disappointed.

Amenadiel hears the wingbeats. He can feel the weight of Lucifer’s presence at his back.

“Enough, Mazikeen,” Lucifer says.

The demon bows low, sheathing her knife with a ‘snickt’ that echoes loudly.

“My king,” she says. She slides back into the shadows and is gone before Lucifer lands.

Amenadiel regards his brother.

His dark eyes burn red, but there is no anger on his face. It is unnerving. 

“Lucifer,” Amenadiel greets. He is trying to feel out these waters. Has Lucifer joined forces with their Mother? Does he even know She’s been sent down here? Lucifer’s expression gives nothing away.

“Brother,” Lucifer answers. “I hadn’t expected to see you here. Did you piss off dear old Dad too?”

Amenadiel’s wings jerk in horror at the suggestion.

Lucifer smirks, but his eyes, despite their glow, remain flat and emotionless.

“No,” Lucifer surmises. “Not why you’re here, is it? Well then. Come along.”

He turns and walks away, leaving Amenadiel to follow.

The ash crunches under their sandals as they walk. Chains rattle on their doors. Wind whistles through the paths made by the columns.

“It’s so cold down here. Is that normal?” Amenadiel asks.

Lucifer doesn’t answer. He turns left at a junction that looks the same as every other. Amenadiel cannot discern how Lucifer is finding the way. Hell is labyrinthine.

Voices chitter and laugh around them. A group of demons follows them at a distance. Amenadiel stays close to Lucifer.

Lucifer doesn’t seem bothered by the cold at all. He doesn’t seem to notice it. He folds his wings away and the linen tunic he wears stops at his thighs. 

They walk for some time. Lucifer says nothing, and the atmosphere is so oppressive that Amenadiel finds he is reluctant to speak.

At last, they come to stop before a large, heavy door. Chains crisscross the front and rattle as the soul behind that door pounds against it.

Amenadiel looks from Lucifer’s blank face to the door, and back. 

For a moment, he doesn’t understand. When realization finds him, it settles like a weight.

“Is She…?” he starts to ask, but the words stick in his throat.

Lucifer regards him calmly.

Amenadiel…

He doesn’t know what outcome he had expected, but there is something so horrible about the rattle of the chains against the door, about the cold apathy on Lucifer’s face, about the entire situation…

He cannot bear to stay another moment.

When he spreads his wings, he leaves Hell, but he doesn’t return to Heaven. Not yet. He cannot see his sibling’s faces. He does not want to tell them what he has discovered below.

Instead, Amenadiel flies to Earth.

He has no clear destination in mind. He never knows how Lucifer chooses which places or which people to visit. 

Amenadiel finds his way back to the mountain where, once, he had collected his brother. Ice limns the leaves. The air is cold, but it’s nothing compared to Hell. He looks down at the valley below. It had been flooded the last time he was here but, now, the terrain below is flat and vibrant with plants. The humans have rebuilt. 

The crunch of snow under his feet feels like ash but here, outside of Hell, the sound is… cleaner, somehow. The echo doesn’t warp and distort.

He feels as though his trip below has left a film of filth on him, somehow. He brushes ash off his shoulders, disgusted and nearly frantic to be rid of it.

His Mother is a prisoner there, now.

Samael is so changed from the brother he grew up with that it makes Amenadiel’s chest ache.

In the valley below, human children loudly play. The sounds of their mirth wend up the hills to his ears. A woman’s voice calls out and they answer. Perhaps she is their mother.

Amenadiel wonders what kind of bond the humans can possibly create with each other in their short lives. Do they imagine that their connections are meaningful?

Angrily, Amenadiel flies away. 

~*~

Lucifer rises to Earth. Amenadiel growls with frustration.

He does not want to see Lucifer. He does not want to return to Earth.

He is tired of this task.

Why has God made Amenadiel responsible for shepherding Lucifer back to Hell? Why did God not simply lock Lucifer in a cell, as he had done with their mother? Why does God allow Lucifer to leave at all?

The thoughts leave a bitter taste on his tongue.

Amenadiel, first-born, is loyal. He reminds himself - _it is not his place to question, but to serve_.

He flies below and begins the process of tracking down Lucifer. The ripple of that power lets him find the correct side of the planet, and then it’s a matter of circling until he finds the right continent, the right land mass, the right village. 

Amenadiel slows time to a crawl as he approaches the banquet. 

The sun shines brightly. The ocean and the sky are nearly the same color. The air smells of warm bread and cooked meat. The table is heavy with platters of food and pitchers of wine. The humans are indulging in revelry. The tableau has captured them eating, drinking, pawing at each other. 

Lucifer sits at the head of the table with some sort of stringed instrument in his lap. The last of his plucked notes are still audible as Amenadiel walks into the square. 

The toga he wears leaves most of his chest exposed. Several of the men around them are similarly dressed. Amenadiel thinks a stiff breeze would bare them, but Lucifer’s fascination with changing human fashions is neither new nor Amenadiel’s concern. 

Lucifer makes an annoyed sound as Amenadiel approaches him. He sets the instrument down and gives Amenadiel his attention.

“Have you come to enjoy the party?” Lucifer asks. “I’ve been promised that this turns into an orgy later.”

“A what?” Amenadiel asks, but at Lucifer’s smirk, he quickly changes it to: “No, nevermind. You have stayed too long already.”

“I’ve barely been here a day,” Lucifer protests.

“As I said,” Amenadiel says darkly. 

Lucifer makes a rude noise. He snatches a piece of meat off of the roasted pig and stuffs it in his mouth. His eyes rove the table as he chews and settle on a lump of cheese. He pulls off a morsel of that as well and offers it to Amenadiel. 

“Have you tried this?” Lucifer asks, as if he thinks the answer might actually be ‘yes.’

Amenadiel is losing patience quickly.

“It’s remarkable what they’re doing with food, now,” Lucifer continues, putting the cheese in his mouth and moving it to a cheek. He continues speaking. It is _disgusting_. “Not just the wine, although the wine, Amenadiel – you don’t know what you’re missing.” He swallows and reaches for the pile of olives. “But the rest of it, too. They’ve really come such a long way since everything they ate was simply gathered or hunted down. Oh, I should take you to Magog – they do this wonderful thing with fermented –”

“Enough!” Amenadiel snaps. He flares out his wings. His right wing brushes one of the frozen dancing women, and the bladed edge of a primary opens a line on her leg. Amenadiel jerks his wing back, but the damage is done. Although it hasn’t started bleeding yet, the red of her blood is vivid and visible in that split flesh. It will bleed as soon as time resumes its normal pace.

Amenadiel glares at Lucifer. 

“We have lingered here overlong,” he says.

“_That_ was _not _my fault,” Lucifer says angrily. His eyes blaze that unnatural, awful red. Is there something wrong with his face, too? Amenadiel is not sure if it is anger that has brought that flush to his pale cheeks or… something else. Something worse.

“We should neither of us be here!” Amenadiel shouts. “The divine should not interact with humanity, Lucifer.”

He considers the woman’s leg. The incision is less than the length of his hand. It isn’t deep. Amenadiel is not pleased that it happened, but he dismisses the injury. It will not kill her, and he has larger concerns.

Lucifer spreads his wings with slow deliberation. They unfurl like an animal raising its hackles, and the bristling pinions do nothing to diminish the impact of Lucifer’s simmering fury.

Amenadiel braces himself, ready for the attack.

He has wondered how many times Lucifer will go willingly back to Hell before he fought Amenadiel, too.

“You will see that she is taken care of,” Lucifer says coldly.

It is an order, and Amenadiel’s spine stiffens at Lucifer’s presumption. However, with no further word, Lucifer dives back into Hell, leaving Amenadiel alone with the revelers.

Amenadiel scowls at the ground where his brother departed. 

He spreads his wings again – carefully – and hesitates on the cusp of returning to Heaven. 

He does not answer to Lucifer. His is not Lucifer’s to command. It rankles that Amenadiel folds his wings away anyway and searches about for something to wrap around the woman’s wounded leg.

~*~

Much to his displeasure, Amenadiel learns what an orgy is the next time he goes to collect Lucifer.

While he waits outside for Lucifer to be done, a cheerfully drunk couple wander out and refuse to take the hint that Amenadiel wants neither their conversation nor their company.

They think his robe is very fine indeed. The man compliments him for the shine of silver around his neck. Amenadiel does not correct him – that his necklace is not silver.

Over their chattering, Amenadiel can hear his brother… finishing… and his annoyance swells further.

“Did you know, I’ve actually met the Devil,” Amenadiel says conversationally, and his unwanted companions perk up in interest. 

It’s petty.

Amenadiel knows it’s petty.

Centuries later, the rumor he starts finds its way to Lucifer’s ears. The indignation on his brother’s face – protesting that he is in no way akin to a goat –

It is all Amenadiel can do not to smile.

~*~

Amenadiel can still discern no pattern to Lucifer’s visits. He doesn’t seem to have a strong preference for continents; visiting jungles and islands, snowy mountains and deserts. He favors places where his height and the color of his skin let him blend in easily, but it isn’t a constant criterion, and Amenadiel doesn’t know if it’s an actual preference or simply Lucifer being lazy. 

The only constant is that Lucifer is drawn to people. 

Most often, it is for the carnal pleasures they offer. Not always.

Sometimes, Amenadiel finds Lucifer listening to the women telling stories to their children. Sometimes, he sits amongst groups of people as they chat, or turn the cooking spit, or have their hair cut. For a while, he had been wholly enamored with watching people have tattoos imbedded into their skins. Amenadiel thinks that Lucifer was actually _disappointed_ that their needles could not mar his flesh as well.

Sometimes, Lucifer attracts crowds of people that watch him play the lyre or tagelharp or bamboo flute. Lucifer picks up the mechanics of the ever-changing instruments with ease. He soaks in the attention the humans offer him as if he cannot possibly get enough.

On this occasion, Amenadiel finds Lucifer on a mountain without a sexual partner or an audience to be found. The air is thick with echoes of Lucifer’s power, and Amenadiel is suspicious immediately.

“Lucifer,” Amenadiel greets.

Lucifer smiles at him with satisfaction.

“Brother,” Lucifer says cordially. Amenadiel’s suspicion deepens.

He looks around surreptitiously, looking for signs of Lucifer’s depravity or mischief. There are traces of smoke in the air, but no fire. He spots a man walking away, below, and if Lucifer had been interacting with the man, he would have had to have called down to him. The man holds a staff in front of him as if he expects it to bite.

“Lucifer, what are you doing?” Amenadiel asks, confused by the scene.

“Encouraging free will,” Lucifer answers enigmatically, smiling with too many teeth.

Lucifer goes back to Hell without protest, and it leaves Amenadiel feeling oddly apprehensive. He looks at the retreating man again, frowning.

He dismisses his worries, though. Mortal lives are brief, and whatever it is that Lucifer has convinced the man to do, Amenadiel doubts it will have long-lasting effects.

~*~

The angels argue back and forth with each other about whether or not God actually spoke to Moses. Gabriel insists that it is God’s work. Michael argues just as vigorously that nothing divine occurred at all.

Amenadiel does not tell them that they are both wrong.

~*~

The Silver City is warm. It is easy to find a comfortable place to sit and contemplate one’s thoughts. The light is opalescent and soft; the air is always faintly sweet and easy to fly through.

Remiel and Zerachiel spar, and to Amenadiel’s eyes it is nearly a dance.

When Remiel catches her brother with a hooked leg, Zerachiel falls with an ‘oof’ of exhaled air. 

“Amenadiel,” Remiel calls. She is grinning with her victory. Her wings are held high and proud. “Come on, brother. You’re next.”

Zerachiel rights himself, shaking his head.

“Come, Amenadiel – let me have a break from her.”

Amenadiel laughs. He rolls his shoulders, stretching his muscles, and steps before Remiel. Remmie bounces on the balls of her feet in anticipation.

Amenadiel feels a ripple below.

The distraction lets Remiel land a solid blow across his mouth, and the both of them are startled by it.

“Brother, why didn’t you dodge?” Remiel demands. She’s upset with him, as if she’s the one left with a bleeding mouth.

Amenadiel cups his lips and rolls his eyes, nodding his head downward.

“Again?” she says, radiating displeasure. “Didn’t you just get back?”

“Yes,” Amenadiel agrees, equally annoyed. He spits blood onto the ground. For a moment, it is a dark stain. Heaven absorbs it quickly, erasing it from view.

“You’re being too kind with him,” Zerachiel says. “Shall I have a go instead? I’m sure I can make Samael stay down.”

“Lucifer,” Amenadiel corrects.

“Sam would kick your ass,” Remiel says to Zerachiel, ignoring Amenadiel’s comment. “You didn’t see him fight Michael.” She gives Amenadiel a considering look. “But you, Amenadiel. You’re God’s chosen warrior. Why do you let him return to Earth?”

Amenadiel pauses. 

Why _does_ he allow Lucifer to return to Earth?

Amenadiel thinks of Lucifer’s playfulness the last dozen or so times he’s made his little escapes.

It has, Amenadiel thinks, become a _game_ to Lucifer. 

God’s punishment has become a _game_.

And Amenadiel has allowed it to happen.

Amenadiel wipes his bleeding mouth once more. He nods a terse farewell to his siblings and leaves them. 

He doesn’t go to collect Lucifer immediately. Instead, he thinks on the problem, turning it over in his mind while he gives his lip time to heal.

Once Amenadiel has decided on a course of action, he takes himself down to Earth.

Lucifer is juggling when Amenadiel finally finds him. He pouts up at the balls, suspended in the air mid-fall as his hands close on empty space. 

“I was just getting the hang of it, too,” Lucifer says dryly, dropping his hands to his hips. He has not yet looked at Amenadiel, still considering the suspended balls. His audience is small – a woman with shockingly red hair and a child that must be her son. “It’s quite fun once you –”

Amenadiel closes his hand on Lucifer’s shoulder and flies them back to Hell.

“Rude!” Lucifer shouts at him in that transitional space. He bats Amenadiel’s hands away once they hit Hell’s atmosphere, glaring at him as he spreads his wings and beats them to hover in the ashy air. “Not so much as a ‘hello?’ Honestly!”

“Your place is in Hell,” Amenadiel snaps. 

“Oh, lovely, you’re in one of _those_ moods,” Lucifer mutters behind him as Amenadiel takes himself back out.

Amenadiel doesn’t fly back to Heaven. He is sure that Lucifer will try to weasel out of Hell again soon, and isn’t disappointed when, moments later, that ripple of displaced power vibrates through the air.

Amenadiel is quick to track it down this time, having been braced for it. He bends space around his wings and is standing before Lucifer minutes later.

Lucifer has found a marketplace bustling with people and fragrant with cooking food. It’s walking distance from the house he just left. Lucifer appears to be bartering with a human selling some sort of… fried… _thing_, when Amenadiel lands again.

Lucifer huffs angrily. He pulls a heavy golden coin out of the pouch at his belt and places it in the merchant’s frozen hand, snatching up one of the fried things and glaring at Amenadiel as he takes a defiant bite.

“Your duty is to rule Hell,” Amenadiel says implacably. “God cast you down and gave you this task, just as He has given me the task of seeing you back to Hell. You will _stop_ ignoring your responsibilities. You are not welcome on Earth.”

Lucifer’s eyes blaze that horrible, Hellish red. Amenadiel does not let it sway his resolve. When he reaches for Lucifer’s shoulder again, his brother dodges back.

Amenadiel has anticipated it and dives forward. Lucifer apparently isn’t expecting so blatant an attack. He still has his fried food in one hand; still has his mouth full when Amenadiel tackles him.

Amenadiel receives an elbow to his throat as he takes them back below. 

Lucifer flares his wings wide, bludgeoning Amenadiel’s arms away from his body. Free of Amenadiel’s grip, they both fall for several meters before they right themselves.

Lucifer is visibly angry, panting as he holds himself in the air above Hell’s burning landscape.

Amenadiel flies back to Earth and waits.

~*~

Amenadiel hardens his heart against his brother’s tricks. When Lucifer flies back to the red-headed woman and her son, Amenadiel is quick to meet him. The child holds one of the juggled balls; the rest lay scattered about on the ground. The woman’s face is captured in shock at what, to her, must be Lucifer’s abrupt disappearance. Amenadiel tightens his hold on time.

“Brother, have I ever failed to return before? I’m only –”

Amenadiel takes Lucifer back to Hell.

“Brother, please, if you would just let me –”

Amenadiel takes him back to Hell.

“Amenadiel, please! Please, I –”

Amenadiel takes him back to Hell.

He does not listen as Lucifer’s anger burns out into a show of confusion, then pleading, then resignation. Amenadiel is unmoved. He will not let Lucifer manipulate him.

Amenadiel has let himself grow soft over the centuries. He has let himself forget how grievous Lucifer’s sins are – how deep his treachery and betrayal.

Amenadiel reminds himself of those facts. The creature staring at him with pain and disbelief is not Samael, his once-loved brother. Samael is gone. Samael was lost the moment he raised his sword against God.

Amenadiel will not forget again.

He expects Lucifer to fight him – truly, passionately fight him, with all the fury he brought to his failed rebellion. 

Lucifer doesn’t fight.

When Amenadiel drops him in the infernal pit for the ninth time in a row, Lucifer has stopped speaking. The archangel lands gracelessly on the burning ground, as if his wings are stiff. Lucifer’s gaze is eerily blank as he stands and watches Amenadiel leave once more. 

Amenadiel finds a quiet place on Earth and waits.

And waits.

And waits.

~*~

Months pass. 

Amenadiel watches the leaves change colors. Humans have not found their way to this place yet. Other animals occasionally wander by to investigate him. A few try to eat him and are disappointed by his impervious skin.

Amenadiel remains vigilant. 

~*~

When a year has come and gone, Amenadiel starts to believe that Lucifer has finally understood his place and has accepted his punishment.

Amenadiel decides to wait just a bit longer. Just in case.

Lucifer does not return.

~*~

Amenadiel’s siblings welcome him back when he returns to the Silver City.

Having spent so much time on Earth, the air in Heaven feels light. He relaxes, breathing deeply.

It is a comfort to be home and unburdened at last.

~*~

A year becomes a decade.

A decade becomes a century.

Lucifer does not return to Earth.

Occasionally, Amenadiel will spare Lucifer a thought. 

He regrets that it took him so long to fully enforce God’s orders, but he's pleased that he has finally accomplished his task.

Mostly, though, Amenadiel does not think about Lucifer at all.

~*~

Azrael has a harried look on her face when she finds him in one of the gardens surrounding the city. Raphael has been trying to coax a new flower into existence, but the fundament of Heaven is insisting that the stem must be green. It is amusing to watch them argue.

“Amenadiel,” Azrael greets him. Her hair is frazzled and her eyes are large.

“Sister, what is it?” he asks. He feels a sinking sensation. Things have been going so smoothly for so long – of _course_ something has gone wrong.

“When is the last time you saw Lucifer?”

Amenadiel must consider the question. He frowns, trying to quantify how much time has passed. Azrael doesn’t wait for him to answer.

“Apparently,” she says, and there is a bite to her words. “Demons have started leaving Hell.”

“They’re what?”

“Piggybacking dead humans. I guess they’re riding damned souls back out of Hell? It’s making a _mess_ down there.”

Amenadiel’s frown deepens.

“Why are you coming to me? Why not take it up with Father?”

She snorts.

“When is the last time Father interfered with humanity? Amenadiel, Hell is Lucifer’s domain, and Lucifer is your charge. Could you go, you know. Poke him and see what’s going on? Maybe get him to make them stop?” She fiddles with the hem of her robe. Amenadiel considers her.

She and Samael had been close before his betrayal. Amenadiel does not think she has seen him since his fall. 

Amenadiel remembers how blankly defeated Lucifer had been the last time he’d delivered the archangel to Hell. 

That was such a long time ago, though. While Lucifer hasn’t returned to Earth, he’s clearly found a different way to bounce back and nettle Amenadiel.

He sighs.

“Yes, sister – I’ll put a stop to this.”

~*~

Hell is so shockingly cold that it steals Amenadiel’s breath. It is nearly impossible to fly against the battering winds. He lands heavily.

The air bites his exposed skin. He squints against the harshness of the wind, shielding himself with his wings as much as possible. 

Hell groans and roars, as if a tornado lingers just out of view. The rocks beneath his feet are so jagged and sharp that they pierce through his sandals. If he were not an angel, they would draw blood. Dust and ash and glass-like splinters pelt against him.

Amenadiel trudges through the onslaught. 

“Lucifer!” he shouts, but the sound is swallowed by the storm.

It takes Amenadiel a long time to make his way to the throne.

When he is close enough to see it clearly, frustration has him growling. The throne is empty.

“This way,” a voice says, far too close to him. Amenadiel jumps aside defensively, spinning around. 

The demon grins back at him. Her half-ruined face is familiar, as is the sadism in her smile.

“Mazikeen.”

Her smile widens. She is bundled thickly in layer of what Amenadiel hopes is leather.

“This way,” she repeats. It’s barely audible over the wind.

Amenadiel debates the wisdom of following her. He looks at the empty throne again and decides to take his chances.

The demon leads him down dark rows of doors. The chains are a cacophony as they smack against the stone. 

“Where are we going?” he calls. If the demon heard him, she doesn’t answer.

The ground shifts under their feet, jutting upward in a massive underground shift. The demon doesn’t seem bothered or alarmed by it, keeping her head down and continuing forwards. Amenadiel braces his hand against the rows of doors and continues after her. 

Amenadiel is worried that she is leading him to Mother’s cell, but she stops in front of an unremarkable door halfway down a row. She waves at him to enter.

Amenadiel looks between Mazikeen’s face and the door, trying to determine if this is a trick.

She rolls her eyes and opens the door for him. Inside, he can see sunshine, a cliff, waves. 

He is still debating what to do when Mazikeen dips around him, sliding invisibly in the dark shadows to come up behind him. She kicks him through the threshold.

The disparity of noise makes his ears pop.

The ocean isn’t quiet, but compared to Hell, the drop in volume is jarring. The warmth of the sunshine on his skin makes him shudder in pleasure. He tucks his wind-battered wings away and takes in his surroundings.

The door is tucked into the sheer rock of a cliff-face. Water sloshes along the rocks at his feet, seeping in through the holes in his sandals. Amenadiel glances around, not precisely sure what he’s looking for. He walks towards the beach.

The thin grass beyond the shore sways in the breeze. Gulls cry overhead. It’s peaceful, and Amenadiel is confused. He had thought the doors contained damned souls; that the contents of the rooms inside delivered punishments to the guilty. This doesn’t seem like a punishment.

For that matter, he appears to be alone.

Amenadiel walks further, but as he approaches the edge of the beach, the air solidifies and does not allow him to move further, as if the space before him is an invisible wall.

Amenadiel puts his hand against that barrier and walks with it, tracing the shape of the ‘room.’

When he spots Lucifer, he lets out a small, startled noise. Lucifer doesn’t react.

The archangel lies on his stomach in a pile of rocks by the water line, watching something out in the waves. His skin is nearly the same shade of gray as the stones he has chosen for his perch. 

“Lucifer,” Amenadiel calls to him.

Lucifer’s attention remains fixed out at the water.

Amenadiel sighs angrily and works his way down the beach to him. At the edge of the water, Amenadiel calls his name again, but Lucifer ignores him.

He hitches up the hem of his robe and wades into the tepid waters.

“Lucifer,” Amenadiel repeats when he is closer.

The white of Lucifer’s eyes are very white in the contrast of his gray skin. His pupils are dark pits; the irises so black they’re only discernible from the shape of the sunlight’s reflection. His dark hair has grown long and curly and moves in the breeze.

Lucifer doesn’t blink as a wave breaks against the rock, sending a fine spray of mist into his face.

“Lucifer?” Amenadiel says. Apprehension prickles along his skin and he climbs up onto the rock. It is wide and flat; there’s enough room for him to sit beside the archangel with space between them.

Amenadiel scans the waters, trying to see what has so captured Lucifer’s attention.

At the base of the cliff, more half-submerged boulders lay scattered around. The waves froth white lines at their seams. 

There’s a woman lying on one of the rocks. The skirt of her dress has flown up in the wind, leaving her bare lower half exposed. Amenadiel curls his lip in irritation. He ought to have known.

“Brother, enough of this.”

“Wait,” Lucifer says.

The word is a barely-audible rasp. 

“Wait?” Amenadiel repeats, not sure if he’s heard him correctly. “Wait for what?” 

Lucifer has fallen still once more, though. His unblinking stare remains fixed.

Amenadiel looks at the woman reclining on the rock again. One of her legs has fallen slightly off her perch. Her foot rests under the water. Waves push up to her knee as they roll in.

Amenadiel watches her, shying his eyes away from her nudity. He looks at the water around her in case _that_, somehow, is what Lucifer is referring to instead. He sees nothing.

“Lucifer, we can’t –”

“Wait,” Lucifer says again. His voice is breathy beneath that rasp. Amenadiel leans closer to him to hear him better and realizes that Lucifer is breathing fast and shallow, like a frightened rabbit. His eyes are too-wide, too-fixed. His gray lips have cracked from the salt.

It is deeply, deeply unsettling.

Amenadiel puts a hand on Lucifer’s shoulder, and he flinches away from him.

“Not yet,” Lucifer says.

“Brother, what are we waiting for?”

“Don’t you see?” Lucifer asks. Finally, he breaks off from staring at the woman and turns those sightlessly wide eyes on Amenadiel instead.

“See what?”

Lucifer tilts his head. His eyes don’t change but his eyebrows lower slightly.

“From the beginning, then,” he says. His voice is still so quiet that Amenadiel has to lean close. He wonders how long it’s been since Lucifer has spoken for his voice to be this rusty.

Lucifer gestures one hand in a circling motion. The sun, which hangs high overhead, rolls across the sky to sit just above the horizon. The woman on the rock disappears.

“Watch,” Lucifer says. He settles back into his position, staring at the waves, at the cliff.

The woman is standing on top of the cliff. The fabric of her dress, rippling in the wind, catches Amenadiel’s eye as she walks purposefully towards the edge.

Even knowing that she is dead – that she is a damned soul – Amenadiel cannot help but cry out in alarm as she jumps.

She hits the rocks below. The sound is brutal and carries in the wind. 

Lucifer’s eyes gleam wetly with their intensity. His attention is transfixed on the body lying on the rocks. One of her legs dips into the water. Her dress, blown up to her waist as she fell, leaves her corpse exposed. It is the same position her body was in when Amenadiel arrived.

Amenadiel tries to reach for Lucifer again. As soon as his fingers touch Lucifer’s back, Lucifer springs at him. His eyes blaze red, the sclera black – his face is a twisted mass of scarred, red flesh, and he bares his sharp white teeth in a feral snarl. It is _monstrous_, and Amenadiel falls back on his heels, nearly tumbling off of the rock completely before he catches himself.

Lucifer settles back into his assumed position almost immediately. As though nothing at all had happened. 

His face has smoothed out. His eyes have returned to their normal color. He watches the body on the rocks, panting those rabbit-like shallow breaths.

Amenadiel swallows.

“Watch,” Lucifer repeats. 

“Brother, there is nothing to see. She's dead.”

“No,” Lucifer says. He shakes his head in a single, sharp denial. Briefly, he meets Amenadiel's eyes. In the reflected sunlight, his pupils seem very small. “The fall didn't kill her. It only paralyzed her.”

Amenadiel looks out at the woman again. She isn't moving.

“The tide rises,” Lucifer continues. “It takes hours, and at its height, the waves are almost, almost high enough to drown her. It comes so tantalizingly close.” His eyes shine. Amenadiel feels a chill run through him. “But the waves aren't high enough. It takes days for her to die. And just before her body gives out, the loop resets, and she falls again.”

He returns his intense stare to the woman. Other than his too-fast breathing, he is still.

The tunic Lucifer wears is belted at the waist. A small pouch hangs on his right side, mostly squashed beneath his body. It's the same outfit he'd been wearing the last time Amenadiel returned him to Hell.

It has been more than a century on Earth. With the way time moves in Hell... Amenadiel has a horrible, sinking suspicion that Lucifer has been indulging in this morbid fascination for millennia.

Amenadiel doesn't know what to do.

He looks up at the fake sky. There are still problems on Earth that he promised his sister he would try to fix. The demons are Lucifer's to control, and Lucifer clearly isn't in control of anything at the moment.

The question, then, is how to get him out of this cell.

Amenadiel spreads his wings slowly. He inches closer to Lucifer.

Lucifer makes a warning noise low in his throat. His body is tensed, ready to spring. Amenadiel slowly lies on the rock next to him. They both look out at the sea. At the damned soul.

“Why did she jump?” Amenadiel asks. He tucks his wings against his back – not away, but close enough to himself that they don't brush Lucifer.

Lucifer doesn't answer. Perhaps he doesn't know.

Waves crash against the rocks. The warm breeze blows over them. There is a distant sound of birds. If it were in a different context, it might have been peaceful.

Amenadiel has time. Even with his trudge through Hell’s tempestuous lands, he doubts it’s been more than a few minutes up on Earth. He settles in to wait.

The sun slowly rises. Amenadiel watches the waves lap at the rocks. Once in a while, he’ll see a fish dart about close enough to the surface of the water to be seen.

The woman’s dress flutters in the breeze. Amenadiel thinks he can see her mouth moving a bit. Her nose reddens – perhaps from the sun; perhaps because she is crying.

Amenadiel doesn’t like looking at her.

By the tiniest measures, Lucifer slowly uncoils next to him. His breathing stays shallow and fast, and Amenadiel’s chest hurts just listening to it. 

The tide rolls in inevitably. As Lucifer described it, the waves lick up the rock, submerging the woman to her knees, then her thighs, then her waist. The waves sometimes reach as high as her neck and splash across her face, but they’re never quite enough to move her body off of its position on the rock. They never cover her face long enough for her to drown.

The sun sets and the stars shine. The moon is nearly full and is more than enough to illuminate the suffering woman.

Lucifer’s attention never wavers from her, but Amenadiel thinks that Lucifer is aware of him, too. His head leans lightly in Amenadiel’s direction. 

The stars above seem endless, but Amenadiel knows that his brother knows their exact number. After all, he put them there. The light-bringer, setting the sky ablaze one precise creation at a time. Samael’s joy at the task had been infectious. 

Things had been simple then. Amenadiel misses those days like a limb.

“Do you know, the humans see shapes in your stars,” Amenadiel says after a while. Does Lucifer’s breathing become more quiet? It’s hard to say.

“There are places in the Silver City where, out of their pleasure at the sight of them, the sky is reshaped to echo this view.”

Amenadiel remembers his surprise at seeing the stars, the first time he’d walked through that section of Heaven. He’d ended up avoiding it afterwards as fervently as he avoided Eve. The wound was too new at the time; too painful.

But he remembers how the humans spoke of the stars. 

“They see a bear, just there,” with calm, easy motions, Amenadiel traces the shape. Lucifer’s eyes follow his hand. It’s the first time they’ve turned away from the woman since he settled down.

“And a crow… And an archer…” Amenadiel can’t remember any more. He starts making them up. He speaks softly, and Lucifer leans a little close to him. “A painted vase with a crack at the lip. A suckling pig. A flute.”

Lucifer has stopped panting. His eyes scan the stars, trying to see what Amenadiel is describing. Amenadiel would be surprised if he could actually see them – he’s choosing objects and patches of stars at random. 

“A juggler,” Amenadiel says, pointing over to the left. Lucifer turns his head to see.

Amenadiel grips Lucifer’s arm and beats his wings hard, pulling them off the rock and into the sea. 

Lucifer struggles like an animal in a snare as Amenadiel drags him through the water, up the beach, and through the door. He is braced for Hell’s raging storm and is startled when he is met with near-silence on the other side. The storm is gone. Lucifer takes advantage of his surprise and nearly manages to wriggle free. Amenadiel grabs him again quickly and kicks off against the ground hard, throwing them into the air and beating his wings to take them the rest of the way out of Hell.

He thinks he sees a glint of mismatched eyes watching them as they rise, but it may just be a trick of the light.

Amenadiel drops him when Lucifer bites his hand hard enough to draw blood. They land on a street busy with armored men and horses. Amenadiel is quick to slow time, even as he flaps out his bitten hand.

Lucifer’s face roils from gray to scarred and red to gray in a rapid, confusing kaleidoscope. He stumbles away from Amenadiel and collapses onto his knees, hunching over his stomach as if he were sick. His wings emerge, massive and white and trembling, and they shield Lucifer from view.

“Lucifer?” Amenadiel queries when a minute passes and Lucifer remains in his half-crumpled position.

Lucifer’s wings twitch.

Amenadiel circles around the line of armored men. They wear swords at their waists. Some carry spears and shields. Atop the horses, the soldiers carry banners that are frozen unfurling in the wind.

As he comes up beside Lucifer, the archangel draws a shuddering breath. Behind the curl of his wing, Amenadiel can see enough of Lucifer’s face to know that his skin has resumed is normal pale hue. 

“Well, this is a change, brother,” Lucifer says in a flat, unfriendly tone. He looks up and catches Amenadiel’s gaze. His eyes are dark and unfathomable.

“You are failing your duties, Lucifer,” Amenadiel says. Now that he’s back on Earth, he is all too aware that what he has done - bringing Lucifer here - is exactly the opposite of God’s commands.

He stifles his concern for Lucifer down. The other angel stands and brushes his hands down his robe. When he rises to his full height, wings still spread, it is only the length of his hair and the distance in his expression that belies what he had been doing. Amenadiel clears his throat.

“Demons are inhabiting human bodies.” Amenadiel pauses, but Lucifer merely stares at him steadily, expecting more. “This must not be allowed to continue. See to it, brother.”

Slowly, Lucifer nods.

“As Father commands,” Lucifer says. There’s no emotion in his voice but his eyes flash red briefly. He flies away before Amenadiel can correct his assumption.

~*~

Amenadiel gives Lucifer four days on Earth to tidy his mess. On the fifth day, Lucifer still hasn’t returned to Hell, and Amenadiel tracks him down.

The village is faintly familiar, although many things have changed since the last time they were here.

Lucifer is sitting on the edge of a stone well when Amenadiel approaches. He’s staring into space and, while he doesn’t look up when Amenadiel draws near, he does begin to speak.

“There was a woman who lived here. Such beautiful red hair. Her son was teaching me to juggle. It was - she was… she was so _smart_, Amenadiel. So funny. I was…” He swallows. He looks up at Amenadiel. “Do you know what her deepest desire was?” His smile is wide and doesn’t reach his eyes at all. “She wanted to rule the world.”

Lucifer laughs and looks around at the nearby humans walking along the street.

“No one even remembers her name,” he says. “She’s gone. She’s just… gone.” 

“Mortal lives are very short,” Amenadiel says hesitantly. If the woman’s soul went to Heaven – and from the way Lucifer speaks of her, he thinks it must have – no good can come from him dwelling on this. He changes the subject. “Are the demons returned to Hell?”

“They are,” Lucifer says. His gaze has drifted away again. He stands from his seat on the well and starts walking away. Amenadiel follows him, frowning when Lucifer walks into a house, plucks a pitcher of wine off a table, and turns it up to drink. He lowers the pitcher with an annoyed sound.

“May I?” he asks Amenadiel pointedly. The suspended liquid will not pour. Amenadiel loosens his grip on time. The chatter of movement outside resumes.

Lucifer drinks, and drinks, and drinks. Some of the wine escapes the seal of his lips and spills down his chin, landing on his tunic like a splash of blood. When the pitcher is empty, he sets it down with a ‘thunk.’

“Lucifer…” Amenadiel doesn’t know how to handle this. How to handle his brother. 

The image of him – with his gray skin and rabbit-fast breathing – Amenadiel doesn’t want to see that again.

“Do not go back through that door.”

Lucifer tips his head to the side. His curly hair brushes his shoulders. 

He turns until he can meet Amenadiel’s gaze, just from the corner of his eye. 

“Is that Father’s orders, or yours?”

Amenadiel feels very exposed. He rolls his shoulders and straightens his back.

“Does it matter?” Amenadiel asks.

Lucifer shakes his head, but Amenadiel isn’t sure if it’s a ‘no.’

There’s barely room for Lucifer to spread his wings, but he manages it. 

When he flies back to Hell, for the first time, Amenadiel is unsettled to see him go.

~*~

A year passes without him returning to Earth.

According to Azrael, demons have not been back since Lucifer did… whatever it was he did to make them fall in line.

It has been silent for long enough that Amenadiel contemplates going back to Hell, just to check, just to make sure that Lucifer hasn’t fallen into another loop door.

As if his thoughts have evoked action, he feels a ripple of power below.

Amenadiel closes his book with a snap. He is relieved, but he doesn’t want to think about why.

When he finds Lucifer, the archangel is straightening his clothes. His hair is neatly trimmed again. The outfit he’s wearing is in a fashion that Amenadiel has seen in the recent souls that pass through Heaven.

“Amenadiel,” Lucifer greets. Everything in his demeanor speaks of casual disinterest. 

“Lucifer,” Amenadiel answers. He glances through the door behind the archangel, at the woman sprawled out on the bed.

“Was she… funny?” Amenadiel asks hesitantly. Lucifer seems more… _there_, more like his old self, and Amenadiel is wary of upsetting this balance.

“Who?” Lucifer gives him a bewildered stare. 

Amenadiel blinks. He directs a pointed glance past Lucifer to the bedroom behind him.

“Oh, her,” Lucifer says absently. He waves his hand dismissively and keeps walking. “No idea. It was just a bit of shared pleasure.” He exits the house and gives Amenadiel a leer of a smile over his shoulder. “You should try it some time, brother.”

Without waiting for Amenadiel to reply, Lucifer spreads his wings and returns to Hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic started as a 5+1 for "5 Times Amenadiel Took Lucifer Back To Hell," and... sort of became something else because I couldn't stop chewing on the idea of "How does Lucifer go from being so passionate that he started a war against God, to that careless, everything-is-a-joke playboy we see in City of Angels?"
> 
> Chapter 1 was going to be a one-shot, but I just have too many thoughts about Amenadiel not to want to follow through on this. And also because even though I said I wasn't going to do any more WIPs for a while because WIP stress is terrible, I seem to be a glutton for that particular brand of punishment.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I did briefly have this as a series rather than a multi-chapter work, because chapter 1 really is kind of its own stand-alone. But the *rest* of the story I don't think will quite work by itself. Hence the revision to making it multi-chaptered again. XD Sorry for the indecision. Chapter 3 should be ready soon!)

An equilibrium is established, albeit imperfectly.

Amenadiel learns that if he doesn’t allow Lucifer at least a full day to indulge in his trips to Earth, the time before his next visit decreases exponentially. If Amenadiel is too heavy-handed in escorting Lucifer back to Hell, Lucifer will balk stubbornly and make the job much more difficult. Likewise, though - if Amenadiel isn’t firm enough, Lucifer will flit back to Earth too quickly.

Lucifer remains… detached… in his dalliances with humans. It seems to Amenadiel that he comes to Earth solely to enjoy the food or drink or sex. He is relieved that Lucifer has stopped trying to set down impossible roots, although he despairs that Lucifer is so comfortable shirking his duties and continues to leave Hell at all.

Amenadiel has stopped thinking that there will ever be an end to this task.

~*~

There’s a dark bruise spreading up from Lucifer’s eyebrow, yellowing the skin by his temple. He has scabs on his knuckles. 

“Amenadiel!” he calls cheerfully. 

Lucifer is surrounded by people but, for a change, everyone seems to be fully clothed. The table Lucifer is draped upon, half-in and half-out of his chair, is scattered with the bulbous green flower buds. His fellow revelers are frozen in positions of equal lassitude. Amenadiel thinks the human tucked into the corner may be dead.

“Amenadiel, you should try one,” Lucifer says. He vaguely offers the remnant of the bud that he holds laxly, its milky insides leaking down his fingers. Lucifer’s words are slightly slurred. He rolls his head against his arm, smiling up at Amenadiel in an unfocused way. “They’re amazing. I can’t feel my face.”

Amenadiel watches as Lucifer seems to forget his presence, eyes drifting down to his fingers. Lucifer pulls his hand to his mouth and licks the fluid off with a sigh.

Amenadiel picks Lucifer up under his arms.

“Oh, brother, no, wait,” Lucifer says, reaching out to pluck more of the round green buds off of the table. He fills his pocket with them. He wobbles on his feet and would likely fall if Amenadiel wasn’t holding him up.

Amenadiel is tempted to let him go.

“Lucifer, you are meant to be ruling Hell,” he says.

Lucifer scoffs.

“As if I need to be sober for that.”

“Got into a fight with your chair, then, did you?” Amenadiel asks, poking the bruise on Lucifer’s temple. Lucifer sloppily bats him away.

“A minor demonic disagreement. Nothing for _you _to worry about.” He laughs suddenly, the mirth pouring out of him in an uncontrolled burst. “Nothing for any of you to worry about. _You_. You know?”

“What?”

“Uriel would have been good at this, I think. He’d’ve been able to see when the demons were getting persnickety. But no such thing as an ambush when you can see the patterns, right? Dour sod probably wouldn’t even mind the misery. Did little Uri see this coming, brother?”

Lucifer isn’t making any sense.

“See what?” Amenadiel asks grumpily, hefting Lucifer up and through the doorway leading outside. Lucifer squirms, and Amenadiel… stops trying to hold onto him.

Lucifer slumps out of Amenadiel’s grasp, slowly falling backwards into the muddy street. He lands with a heavy, wet sound.

Lucifer giggles, like his collapse is the funniest thing in the world. He drops his arms out to his sides so that they land deeply in the mud as well, plopping into the earth. Some of the poppies have fallen out of his pocket but Lucifer doesn’t notice.

Lucifer sighs and closes his eyes. He rocks his head a little, well and truly working the mud into his hair.

“My fall,” he says dreamily.

And falls asleep.

Amenadiel casts his eyes skywards for patience. It’s overcast and the stars are hidden. There’s moisture suspended in the air that may become rain again once Amenadiel releases time.

Amenadiel sighs and scoops Lucifer back up, debating whether or not to drag the archangel through a lake first before taking him back below.

~*~

Lucifer is more lucid the next time he comes up to Earth, for which Amenadiel is grateful. The archangel doesn’t acknowledge that there was anything amiss with his previous trip.

When Amenadiel asks Lucifer what he meant about Uriel, he receives back a puzzled, offended expression.

“What about little Uri?” Lucifer asks.

“You seemed quite fixed on the idea that Uriel would have seen ambushes coming.”

“Ah,” Lucifer says dismissively. He has finished dressing by this point. It’s difficult to discern which tangled limbs belong to which person in the pile of sated humans on the bed behind him. “I’m sure Uriel could see a lot of things coming.”

There’s a bitter catch in Lucifer’s voice, but he’s smiling when he turns back to Amenadiel.

“Well, brother. Until next time.”

“Or you could just stay and rule Hell. You could just do that,” Amenadiel points out.

Lucifer laughs, like he finds the idea genuinely amusing, and flies below.

~*~

He finds Lucifer by himself inside a yakhchal the next time he comes to Earth. The discrepancy between the warm desert and the chilled air inside the building is startling, and Amenadiel is impressed with the engineering despite himself. 

Lucifer has a bowl of some sort of thickened milk in one hand and is dipping pieces of a red-fleshed melon into it, eating the combination with a look of obvious pleasure. Pieces of rind form a small pile beside him, up against the wall.

Amenadiel clears his throat and Lucifer looks over at him with a startled expression, clearly unaware that time is no longer moving forward.

“Oh, I – already? Really?” He lowers the bowl to his lap. The clothing he wears is colorful and loose. Humans have started to dye their fabrics. It’s garish, but Amenadiel thinks this trend will pass. 

Amenadiel glances around at the inside of the structure, at the blocks of ice that sit in the center of the room, not melting despite being in a desert.

“It’s clever, isn’t it?” Lucifer says, following Amenadiel’s line of sight. “The heat funnels up through the top.” He points at the vented opening high above. “I may have to see if I can build something similar in Hell.” He frowns. “Actually, I don’t think it’d work, below. The heat isn’t exactly coming from the sun.”

He takes a contemplative bite of the melon, catching the juice with the fingers of his other hand as it starts to roll down his chin.

“Luci, it’s time to go back,” Amenadiel says.

Lucifer cocks his head at him curiously. He looks at Amenadiel - _really_ looks at him, and Amenadiel is started to realize that it’s the first time that’s happened in a long time.

“Amenadiel?” Lucifer asks, as if he doubts Amenadiel’s identity.

Amenadiel parses through the last few seconds, confused as to what could have garnered such a response. 

“It’s time to return to Hell,” he repeats.

Lucifer shakes his head, and the tension in the air dissipates. He drops the half-eaten melon into the bowl of thickened milk and stands, brushing his sticky fingers down his thighs.

“Well then,” Lucifer says. He opens his wings, bending them slightly to accommodate the curve of the building. The tips of his wings dip a little. Lucifer gives Amenadiel another long, appraising glance. 

He shakes his head again, though, and flies below before Amenadiel can question his odd behavior.

~*~

Back in Heaven, Amenadiel contemplates the interaction. What had sparked that strange look of… of what, recognition?

He puzzles it out until he realizes that he had called Lucifer ‘Luci.’

As he had once called Samael ‘Sam.’

_That_ had been what Lucifer was seeing in him.

It twists a knife in Amenadiel, somewhere deep and vital.

He vows not to call Lucifer anything but _Lucifer_ going forward.

~*~

Lucifer is sleeping when Amenadiel locates him this time. 

The archangel is stretched out on a plush pile of pillows surrounded by women. He’s wearing the same sort of garb that they are – soft, colorful materials, glittering jewelry. His eyes are lined with kohl and his lips are reddened. A smile tugs at his mouth as he sleeps. He holds one of the women in his arms, her leg draped between his, her head tucked under his chin, her dark hair spilling down his chest.

One of Lucifer’s pale feet pokes out from the bundle of limbs, and Amenadiel taps him there.

“Lucifer. Lucifer. Wake up.”

Lucifer grumbles and turns a little, burying his nose into the pillows.

Amenadiel taps his foot again. The anklet he’s wearing jingles. Lucifer makes another low, disgruntled sound.

Amenadiel drags his thumbnail up the sole of Lucifer's foot.

Lucifer’s foot jerks back and his eyes pop open. He gives Amenadiel a surprised, bleary look, and then takes in his surroundings.

His face falls.

“I fell asleep?” he says unhappily.

Amenadiel doesn’t supply him with the obvious answer.

Lucifer sighs and drops his head back on the pillow, staring up at the ceiling with a frown. Amenadiel is just about to remind him that he needs to get up when Lucifer starts gently disentangling himself. His jewelry rattles and chimes, until at last he’s extricated from the embrace.

When he’s standing, the silky pants hang low on his hips, emphasizing the muscles of his lower abdomen. The waist is elaborately embroidered. Amenadiel cocks his head – the garb is clearly feminine, and he wonders how Lucifer came to be wearing it.

Lucifer slips the necklace off over his head. The gemstones twinkle in the light.

“Better leave that here,” he says, placing it on the pillows where he’d been lying. The woman’s arm will drift down on top of it once time resumes. “They’ll be in trouble if it goes missing.”

Lucifer stretches and yawns.

“I don’t suppose I can talk you into staying long enough for breakfast? They make this rice thing – ”

“No, Lucifer,” Amenadiel says flatly.

Lucifer quirks an eyebrow at him. Amenadiel stares back, unmoved. 

Amenadiel watches Lucifer’s open expression slowly harden. Lucifer looks away from him and slips the bracelets off his wrists as well, placing them on a nearby table.

“Very well, brother, I can see how it is,” he says frostily. Still with his back to Amenadiel, Lucifer whips open his wings and departs.

Amenadiel takes a deep breath.

He knows – just _knows_ –that Lucifer will be back again in days, just to spite him.

~*~

Amenadiel isn’t wrong. He looks at Lucifer and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Why is… why is your _arm_ inside her?”

He doesn’t understand Lucifer’s obsession with sex but this – this doesn’t even… Amenadiel doesn’t understand what he’s looking at.

“These people press oil from the olives. It’s really opened up some fantastic possibilities,” Lucifer says proudly. When Amenadiel doesn’t respond, Lucifer gives him an impatient look and nods back to his other hand – the one without the ring, thankfully – which is buried up to the forearm in the woman beneath him.

“Do you mind?” Lucifer asks pointedly.

Amenadiel walks out of the room.

“Oh so _very_ much,” he mutters, but he releases his hold on time all the same.

He tries not to notice how many bottles of oil Lucifer takes with him when he finally leaves.

~*~

He’s talking with Azrael when he feels that tell-tale ripple below _again_. 

Amenadiel closes his eyes and wills for patience. It’s been less than a day. This is Lucifer’s seventh time coming to Earth in less than a month.

“Brother?” Azrael asks.

“Lucifer’s acting up again,” Amenadiel growls. He glares down towards Earth - sure that, somehow, contrary slut that he is, Lucifer will have already found a human to bed just to make things difficult and awkward when Amenadiel collects him.

Azrael fidgets.

“Hell is awful,” she says. “I get why he wants to leave.”

Amenadiel gives her an incredulous look.

“Sister, it’s his punishment. It’s not supposed to be fun.”

“No, I know. I know that, I’m just… It’s… Amenadiel, you know what he’s like. He isn’t… I mean Hell isn’t…” She gives a blustering sigh. “Nothing. Nevermind. I’m just… no, nevermind.”

Azrael flies away and for a long moment, Amenadiel stares after her, wondering if he should feel concerned.

Azrael and Lucifer had been so close, back before the rebellion. He decides that Lucifer can wait and seeks out Uriel instead. 

The archangel doesn’t seem surprised to see Amenadiel, but then he never is.

“I was wondering when we’d have this conversation,” Uriel says. He’s standing at the edge of a perfectly still lake. The waters extend to the horizon and reflect the billowing nebula above perfectly. Uriel bends and picks up a small, smooth stone from the gravel beneath his feet.

“Which conversation is that, brother?” Amenadiel asks. Is Uriel also concerned that Azreal is questioning God’s decisions?

“You wanted to ask about Lucifer, right? Whether he’s ever going to ever settle down and accept his duties?”

It isn’t, but Amenadiel finds himself nodding anyway. Uriel’s insight is valuable and too-often overlooked. 

Uriel tosses the stone, sending it skipping across the surface of the water. The mirror-like quality of the lake’s flat surface is marred as ripples swell out from each skimming bounce of the rock. Seven, eight, nine skips and the rock sinks beneath the surface. The reflected yellows and pinks of the swirling galaxy have spreading shadows, now.

“It isn’t in Lucifer’s nature to be content,” Uriel says. “Goes along with his sensitivity to desire, maybe. He _wants_ more, so he keeps reaching for more, whether or not it’s a good idea.”

They both watch the ripples spread wider and wider.

“I think, sooner or later, he’s going to pick another fight with Dad, or with you.” Uriel sniffs. “Or it could go the other way. He might just give up completely.”

Uriel picks up another rock.

“It might be easier if he did,” Uriel says. He considers the rock in his hand, and then the ripples that are still gently extending out – small, but still noticeable on the otherwise flat surface.

Uriel drops the rock back onto the gravel, un-thrown.

Amenadiel remembers Lucifer in that Hell loop. He’d never told the other angels about it, deferring with little half-truths about ‘you know how he is’ or ‘busy in Hell’ if anyone asked. Mostly, no one asked.

But Amenadiel remembers how fixated and broken Lucifer had been. The woman fell and she stayed where she had fallen until she finally, mercifully died. Amenadiel still worries about why _that_ loop in particular had so enraptured him. 

_It might be easier if he gave up completely_.

Amenadiel doesn’t know if that’s true. He has seen what Lucifer giving up looks like, and there was nothing easy about it at all.

He takes his leave of Uriel, thoughts whirring and unsettled. 

He doesn’t want Lucifer to start another war with God, but he doesn’t want that his brother to become that broken, desperate _thing_ again either.

This, Amenadiel realizes, must be the _real_ task that God has given him. Not the simple job of taking Lucifer back to Hell when he visits Earth, but the much more delicate balance of keeping Lucifer content _enough_ that he doesn’t rebel again.

As soon as he thinks it, Amenadiel realizes that it must be true.

He smiles, pleased with having figured out Father’s designs. Amenadiel flies down to Earth with a renewed purpose.

He will not let Lucifer forget that Hell is his punishment, but giving Lucifer the illusion of control – surely, that will be enough to keep the Devil happy.

~*~

The seats are carved into the hillside in ascending steps of platforms, all funneling down to the stage laid flat at the bottom. Lucifer sits midway down the hill and waves Amenadiel towards him as he notices the performers slow to a stop.

“Amenadiel! Come, sit! I think we’re just about to get to the good part. Those two –” He points at the costumed men. “Just had a massive argument, because the one with his foot wrapped up - Philoctetes – he got tricked by the other guy who was trying to steal his bow on behalf of – well, nevermind, it’s complicated. Point is, foot-guy is apparently an amazing archer and the other one was trying to convince him to fight on their side of the war, but they’ve been real dicks to him, so he just wants to go home. Whole story’s been leading to him being convinced to fight for them anyway and it’s _completely_ in shambles. No idea how they’re going to get him to change his mind. Come, Amenadiel, sit! Let’s see how this ends!” He pats the seat beside him excitedly.

Amenadiel considers Lucifer’s enthusiastic demand in the light of his new realization. He purses his lips and, as the smile starts to slip from Lucifer’s face, makes up his mind and nods.

“Alright, then. But you’ll return afterwards, yes?”

Lucifer scoots over a little further, looking delighted by this capitulation. Amenadiel gathers his robe and takes the offered seat.

There’s a startled grumble behind him as he relaxes his hold on time; humans behind him surprised by his ‘abrupt’ appearance. Amenadiel turns to give them an unimpressed look, and lets their assumptions and embarrassment convince them that yes, yes he had been there already and they just hadn’t noticed.

The play continues below, the actors calling up impassioned lines against the backdrop of the little building they stand against. The one with the wrapped foot argues that, even though the army at home will be angry with him for returning to Greece instead of joining the forces at Troy, that he would still rather go home than fight.

There’s a shuffle as, slowly, a third actor is hoisted by a crane and held above the quarreling actors’ heads.

Lucifer’s excited fidgeting slows. A frown forms on his face.

The man on the crane announces that he is the god, Heracles, and that if Philoctetes goes to fight in Troy, his foot will be healed and the Greeks will win the war.

Philoctetes agrees to go to Troy, and, just like that, the play ends.

Lucifer splutters.

“That’s it?” Lucifer demands. He stands angrily, and the humans around them make protesting noises. “_That’s_ the resolution? Are you serious? That’s nonsense!”

“Sit yourself down,” one of the women says, scowling at him.

Lucifer glares back.

“As if God – or _Gods_, as you lot would have it, as if one of that bastard wasn’t enough - has ever fixed anything!” he says. Discontentment rolls off of him in waves.

Amenadiel slows time as the woman inhales to reply. Lucifer turns to Amenadiel, gesticulating wildly.

“But that didn’t fix _anything_! Philoctetes was _right_ to say ‘no’ to them – they manipulated him, tricked him, tried to steal from him – and instead of dealing with it, they just…” He waves his hands.

“They had faith, and it was rewarded,” Amenadiel offers.

“Oh don’t you start. This isn’t even about that – this is just bad storytelling!” Lucifer clenches his fists with frustration and rolls his eyes. 

“Well, maybe they’ll feel guilty about the disappointment and you can take it up with them directly in a few years.” Amenadiel says dryly.

Lucifer perks up at that and gives Amenadiel a surprised smile.

“Was that a joke?” Lucifer asks.

Amenadiel gives Lucifer a slow blink. 

Lucifer laughs, discarding his temper like shrugging off a garment, and steps up onto the seat to give himself enough room to spread his wings.

“Fair enough, brother,” he chuckles. He spares the actors below one more contemptuous glance and shakes his head, dismissing them. “Well then. A deal’s a deal, even if that ending _was_ complete rubbish,” he says, waving at the stage below. 

Despite his irritation and destination, Amenadiel notes that Lucifer still smiling when he dives down to Hell.

Amenadiel cannot help but feel proud at how well that had gone.

He hopes that the humans continue to disappoint Lucifer. 

~*~

The pause between visits is several months, the next time.

The time after that, it’s nearly a year.

The length between Lucifer’s little excursions topside stretch and stretch, until it becomes routine for several years to pass between his breaks from Hell.

Though there are exceptions, Lucifer continues to mostly seek out humans for sex and music and revelry, and Amenadiel wonders if Lucifer is getting bored of it, and that that’s why he’s coming up to Earth with less frequency. 

After all, he’s surely had sex with every possible combination of partners and in every conceivable position by now. 

Sometimes, Lucifer will bury himself with drugs or drink so deeply that he’s barely able to stand when Amenadiel collects him. Those visits are the worst, because Amenadiel knows Lucifer will be back again more quickly in their wake. The intoxicants don’t seem to satisfy him the same way human company does. Or perhaps it’s that Lucifer has access to alcohol in Hell – even if he complains that it ‘tastes like the backside of a behemoth.’

The human population grows and grows and grows. Amenadiel wonders if, instead of a waning interest in humanity’s enticements, it is perhaps that the ever-expanding influx of souls into Hell is keeping Lucifer busy and distracted below. Uriel certainly seems at capacity with the welcoming speeches into the Silver City. Amenadiel imagines it must be the same in Hell.

He asks Lucifer about it once, his back turned to the archangel while Lucifer washes his face. The man Lucifer had been… engaged with… sits bonelessly in a chair, face upturned as if in prayer. It feels somewhat obscene, made worse by the man’s nudity. Amenadiel directs his eyes towards the window instead.

He hears Lucifer drop the dampened cloth back into its bowl.

“I’m more of a delegator, really,” he says, answering Amenadiel’s question. “The demons are more than happy to see to the souls that need a direct touch.”

Amenadiel turns back around.

There’s still evidence of his recent activities stuck in Lucifer’s beard. Amenadiel starts to point it out but Lucifer’s expression darkens, just for a moment, and he holds his tongue.

“Sometimes, it’s a more hands-on affair,” Lucifer adds. “Some souls are… complicated. It takes time and delicacy to give them what they need.”

He sighs.

“Speaking of which, there’s a masochist down there that I’m sure is missing me.” He gives Amenadiel an empty smile. “Better get back to it.”

Watching Lucifer fly away, Amenadiel thinks it was a mistake to bring it up.

He remembers Uriel telling him - _“It isn’t in Lucifer’s nature to be content” - _and curses himself for his curiosity. 

He looks at the man in the chair and wonders how much longer Lucifer will be content with small diversions. If Hell isn’t keeping him occupied and Earth doesn’t offer him anything new, how long will it be before Lucifer turns his eyes towards Heaven again?

Amenadiel worries that he’s failing in his task.

He lets his attention drift over the human’s belongings. Flecks of wood litter the floor by his table; tools with obvious wear lie alongside little carvings. Wood has been carefully crafted into horses, people, a wolf. Amenadiel picks up a carved chariot, admiring the details and the way the wheels actually spin.

When the humans stop making new and interesting things, Amenadiel thinks he will have to fight Lucifer in earnest. 

He sets the chariot back down with a sinking sensation. 

He is concerned that human innovation will slow to a stop sooner rather than later. After all, with their short lives, how much can any of them really accomplish in the span of years between their births and their deaths?

Amenadiel remembers the twisted, red-skinned nightmare creature that hides inside his brother’s skin. It had just been a glimpse, just a flash in Hell as Lucifer had lashed out to push Amenadiel away, but Amenadiel hasn’t forgotten it.

He wonders how long _that_ creature will be content.

~*~

Amenadiel finds Lucifer in a desert. He’s apparently arguing with the skinny young man glaring back at him. Lucifer’s waving a loaf of bread in a way that’s almost aggressive and, when Amenadiel slows time, Lucifer turns his ire towards Amenadiel.

“Okay, look,” Lucifer says by way of greeting. “This guy isn’t listening to me. Would you please get him to eat something?”

Amenadiel regards the man. His face is captured in a belligerent pout that’s decidedly similar to the expressions he’s seen Lucifer wear. It’s been a while since Lucifer has pursued anything but shallow revelry with the humans – the last couple of centuries have been mostly fishing Lucifer away from the sated humans he leaves in his wake - and Amenadiel frowns, wondering why this one is different.

“Why do you care about him?” Amenadiel asks.

Lucifer quirks his mouth to the side. “I met him… oh, about a decade ago, I think. Asked him what he desired, thinking it’d be an afternoon of enthusiastic sex on the delightfully sturdy tables he’d made. Not so much, as it turned out. And I think having him voice that desire may have nudged him into pursuing this path.” He gestures at the surrounding desert. “I listened to what he was saying to that group that follows him,” he grins at Amenadiel. “I like his ideas.” 

Lucifer laughs and his eyes, when he looks at the young man, are soft and fond. Bitterness creeps in, and when he regards Amenadiel again, his expression is flat.

“I mentioned that with his charisma and intelligence, he could try to find a place in politics where he could reshape laws, improve society. But oh, no, as soon as I mentioned my name, it was all ‘I’ll not be tempted toward power, Satan.’”

Lucifer sighs angrily. 

“And now he won’t even take food from me when he’s starving. Idiot.”

He hands Amenadiel the loaf of bread and flares out his wings.

“You, though – one of Dad’s good little angels – I’m sure he’d accept help from you. After all, he thinks he’s Dad’s son.”

“He what?” Amenadiel asks, but Lucifer has already left. Amenadiel rolls his eyes.

He considers the bread, and the young man, and the desert. They’re nowhere near civilization and Amenadiel can see the man’s ribs. If he left, would the man die?

Maybe he could just leave the bread here for him to find?

No, probably not. If the man thought Lucifer had left it, it sounded like he would ignore it on principal.

Amenadiel sighs, aggrieved, and allows time to resume. The man blinks at him.

“Hi,” Amenadiel says.

~*~

It’s not long after that that he joins Lucifer as he stands in a crowd, staring up at the crucified carpenter. The man’s face is painted with blood and suffering, but it’s definitely the same human.

Lucifer turns his head towards Amenadiel, acknowledging him. There is a slump in Lucifer’s shoulders – a melancholy air of disappointment.

“Yes, brother, I’m done here,” he says.

~*~

Lucifer is wading through a street filled with black ash when Amenadiel locates him. The city is sepulchrally silent. Amenadiel can see the trail that Lucifer has left behind him as he wandered. The hot ash rises up to his knees.

The air is thick with smoke and tastes acrid. The street curved downward ahead of them and the city is just… gone. The smoldering pumice and ash lay so thickly that the buildings are swallowed whole. The sky is so dark with smoke that the sun is merely an outlined shape above.

Lucifer turns down a side street, or what might have once been a side street. The ash rises to his waist as he pushes forward with determination, cutting a path through the debris. 

Lucifer visibly flinches. He changes direction, slightly, and moves forward with more care. He must have stepped on something. Or, judging by the look on Lucifer’s face, more probably he’d just stepped on a corpse.

Amenadiel grimaces and follows him slowly.

“Lucifer, everyone is dead. What are you looking for?”

Lucifer hesitates. 

The alleyway is lined with doors, mostly submerged in the black ash. Lucifer’s head turns to the side, looking at one of the doors for a long, long moment.

Wind pushes through the alley, stirring the ash. The air is punishingly hot and reeks of sulphur.

“Lucifer?” Amenadiel prompts again.

Lucifer’s wings twitch, and he turns enough to look at Amenadiel over his shoulder.

“Did Father do this?” Lucifer asks quietly. His wings are held close to his back; the muscles tight.

Amenadiel doesn’t know. He doesn’t think so.

“I’d thought, perhaps, this was your doing,” Amenadiel says.

Lucifer whips around completely and stares incredulously at Amenadiel. There’s such a wealth of anger on Lucifer’s face that Amenadiel knows he’s misstepped even before Lucifer opens his mouth.

“You thought I would create this Hell here on Earth? I can think of nothing more grotesque.” His lip is curled in a snarl, his arms spread wide to encompass the smoking devastation around them. He shakes his head incredulously at Amenadiel, then stretches and beats his wings, kicking up the ash around him in a cloud. 

He’s gone – out of the city – but Amenadiel can tell that Lucifer hasn’t gone back to Hell.

Amenadiel is happy to leave the ruined city, even if it does mean he has to track his brother down again.

It takes most of a day, but Amenadiel finds him far south of Pompeii, in a little settlement tucked alongside a meandering river. The sky is full of fluffy white clouds. The grass is green and sways in the sweet wind. It’s as different from the devastated city they just left as could be imagined.

Lucifer has his lap full of a woman whose skin is so black that Lucifer, even streaked with ash as he still is, nearly glows in pale comparison. Amenadiel spares his brother an eye-roll before stepping back and releasing time.

Amenadiel watches the scuttling things that live at the bottom of the river. Fish dart by now and again. Goats bleat at each other in the grass.

Amenadiel looks up sharply at the feel of rippling power. 

He runs back to the hut and the woman, alone now, looks at him with wide, dreamy eyes.

“Wings!” she says breathlessly. “He had wings!”

Amenadiel makes a frustrated sound and unfurls his own wings. He takes flight after his errant brother to the sound of the woman’s shocked laughter.

He folds space around his wings, zipping past miles and miles with every beat, trying to follow the faint vibration of power that he associates with the archangel.

It’s difficult to pinpoint. Is Lucifer hiding himself, somehow?

Doubtful, Amenadiel twice ventures down to Hell just to confirm that Lucifer hasn’t returned. The heat and stench reminds him strongly of the ruined city. But he doesn’t find Lucifer.

The search lasts for days. More than a week. Lucifer is keeping himself tightly coiled and the normal beacon of his presence is muted and dim. Amenadiel is frustrated, exhausted, and livid by the time he finally locates the Devil.

Lucifer is lying on his back on a stone wall, legs straddling either side of it and staring up at the stars. He has a stringed instrument held loosely against his chest and is plucking out a contemplative melody. A pair of human children sit on the ground against the wall, listening to him, but it doesn’t look like Lucifer is playing to that audience so much as for himself.

Amenadiel snatches the instrument from Lucifer’s lax fingers and throws it out into the field. The children make surprised noises and Amenadiel slows time to a crawl.

Lucifer sighs but doesn’t move.

Amenadiel is tired from the sleepless days flying around the world trying to find him. He’s _angry_.

Lucifer makes a protesting grunt when Amenadiel grabs a handful of his tunic and pulls him down off of his perch. Amenadiel smoothly follows the motion, opening his wings before Lucifer has landed and taking them both back to Hell.

The glare Lucifer shoots at Amenadiel is venomous as he pulls free and flaps his wings, stabilizing himself.

Amenadiel glares back. Part of him hopes that Lucifer tries something, here, in Hell, where they can fight without endangering Earth. He makes himself take a deep breath. Another. Tries to let go of his overwhelming desire to punch Lucifer in the face.

This is, perhaps, a test. Amenadiel forces himself to be calm. He will not incite a second rebellion.

It’s hard, though – immensely hard, when everything from the stubborn jut of Lucifer’s jaw to the bristle of his feathers seems designed to prey on Amenadiel’s anger, especially as exhausted as he is in this moment. A red light burns deep in Lucifer's eyes.

Hell roils around them, the heat and stench like being engulfed in a furnace. The discomfort of it eats at Amenadiel’s skin but Lucifer doesn’t even seem to notice. He’s used to it. Amenadiel imagines it’s why he could so effortlessly wade through the burning ash in Pompeii.

Lucifer appears to be waiting for Amenadiel to say something. To _do _something. There’s something sarcastic and inciting in the strokes of his wings as he keeps himself aloft.

He wants the confrontation, too, Amenadiel realizes. Lucifer _wants_ Amenadiel to fight him.

It’s a bucket of cold water to Amenadiel’s anger, and he’s ashamed of how foolishly he nearly stepped into this trap.

He needs to rethink this. Find a new approach.

Lucifer sighs at him impatiently, and something about it – something about that self-righteousness that Lucifer carries with him – it gives Amenadiel an idea.

Lucifer doesn’t know that God isn’t talking to them anymore. How could he, banished creature that he is? Lucifer’s interactions with Amenadiel himself are the closest Lucifer has been to the Silver City since he was cast out.

“I’ll discuss this with Father,” Amenadiel says grimly. It’s a brazen lie but Lucifer…

Lucifer believes him.

There’s a flicker of emotion that passes over Lucifer’s face. A crack across his belligerent façade; an entering sliver of doubt. The red in his eyes dims away, and the archangel’s shoulders dip defensively.

Amenadiel leaves Hell without another word. 

He’s found the trick of it, he thinks. A solution to the Lucifer problem.

Amenadiel has found a new balance – one between Lucifer’s pride, and Lucifer’s fear.

~*~

In the Silver City, Amenadiel turns his attention towards God’s presence. He wants to ask if he’s doing the right thing, manipulating Lucifer like this – if this is what God wants, if Amenadiel is performing this task well, if God actually _would_ reprimand Lucifer for leaving Hell…

Amenadiel _wants_ to ask, but he hesitates.

God loved Samael. 

God loved Samael and was forced to cast him down when Samael betrayed Him. The wound of that was painful for all of them but it must be, Amenadiel thinks, painful to God the most. 

Surely, it’s kinder not to mention it unless he has to.

Amenadiel convinces himself that _this_ is the reason he holds his tongue. 

~*~

Lucifer has been spending more and more of his trips to Earth away from those places where Christianity has spilled across the land, finding its way into unexpected cracks and corners of the world. Amenadiel can’t help but notice the iconography and signs of worship as he slips around the world looking for his brother. It seems the carpenter’s words and story moved many people. Amenadiel sees the blood being spilled for their beliefs, and he wonders if he did the right thing, feeding that starving man. Is this why Father told them that divine interference should be avoided? The effects reach farther and farther every day.

Amenadiel finds Lucifer eating the warmly spiced foods in Persia, listening to the stories the traders tell. The next time, Amenadiel finds him in an incense-filled bower, his dhoti thrown aside and post-coital humans pressed against him. The next time, Amenadiel finds Lucifer with a group of men galloping on horseback across a sunlit grassy plain. The time after that, it’s back to Africa and a new round of carnal pleasures, and then to a ship in the middle of the ocean, and then a village in the mountains. Amenadiel loses track of how many different languages Lucifer speaks; how many new languages the humans have splintered off and created. The accent tilting Lucifer words changes and changes and changes. The ones that emphasize his sarcasm tend to linger longer than the others but nothing sticks for long. 

Half of the time, Lucifer takes trinkets back to Hell with him when he goes. Sometimes, Amenadiel can discern what use Lucifer would put them to, as with the bottles of oil he takes, or the whips, or phalluses.

Mostly, though, Amenadiel is baffled by the things that catch Lucifer’s eye. A little stone elephant statue. A bramble basket woven to look like a fish. A brass horn. A blade from a turbine being assembled. It becomes expected; Lucifer slipping things into his pockets or tucking them under his arms as he departs, leaving gold coins in their place for their previous owners to find.

Amenadiel imagines a room in Hell, somewhere in the Black Palace, that is filling slowly up with all of this Earth detritus. He imagines Lucifer sitting in the middle of it as pleased as any magpie with a pilfered hoard.

The fight they’d nearly had isn’t forgotten; the _threat_ Amenadiel had put at Lucifer’s feet isn’t forgotten. Amenadiel can see it clearly on Lucifer’s face on those occasions when Lucifer tries to wheedle for more time, and Amenadiel says ‘no.’

Lucifer doesn’t press it. Amenadiel is grateful.

~*~

Lucifer stands in the crowd, nearly a head taller than the people around him and almost comically easy to spot for it. The show of cascading, burning lights being displayed in the open square is reflected in his dark eyes.

“Is this your doing?” Amenadiel asks, regarding the suspended sparks.

“Not at all!” Lucifer says, breathless pleasure thick in his tone. Amenadiel considers the spectacle. The brilliant flames twist and drift in man-made patterns, barely moving for his hold on time, but moving just enough for him to see the shape and scope of it.

Amenadiel finds a place to stand and lets time go. The fireworks are louder than he thought they’d be, and too the crowd’s excited cheering. He can pick out Lucifer’s voice in the din, laughing and saying something in syllables that Amenadiel doesn’t understand, but that generates even more laughter from the people around the archangel.

The sparks, at last, trickle to a stop. The air is thick with sulfurous smoke and applause.

Lucifer is still smiling when he returns to Amenadiel’s side, although the glee dims step by step as he approaches. Amenadiel takes control of time again and the chatter of humanity quiets.

“It’s a new year, brother,” Lucifer says. At Amenadiel’s confusion, Lucifer waves a hand at the smoky sky. “That’s what all this fuss was about. Ushering in a new year. I suppose they get so few of them in their lives that each one is a special occasion. They’ll spend tonight drinking and feasting and pursing all manner of pleasures. You’re sure I can’t tempt you to linger a while? _Enjoy_ yourself for once?”

Amenadiel sees a flicker of movement distantly behind Lucifer’s back – something moving at a normal speed where every mortal thing is held suspended. Azrael, startled, meets Amenadiel’s eyes across the square. He thinks there must have been a death somewhere in that crowd that she’d come to collect.

Lucifer starts to turn, but misses her, Azreal having flown away the moment Lucifer moved.

“No, Luci,” Amenadiel says, drawing Lucifer’s attention back. The nickname softens his demand.

Lucifer shrugs.

“Maybe next year,” the Devil says, although they both know it’s untrue. With care, Lucifer lifts one of the little paper lanterns off of its hook and turns it in his hands for a considering moment. He nods, satisfied with whatever criteria it is he applies to the things he takes.

His wings bring light to the darkened street when he unfurls them, and he returns to Hell on a billowing curl of firework smoke.

Amenadiel surprises himself by staying for a while once Lucifer departs. He doesn’t release time, not yet, but winds his way through the stationary people, looking at the decorations, sampling the food.

Does Lucifer’s interest in any of this extend beyond the novelty of the experiences? He turns what Lucifer said over in his mind. It’s sympathetic to humanity, rather than his normal indifferent greed and lust. A new year. Should Amenadiel be worried? 

He hears a flutter of wings beside him but doesn't feel the swelling pulse of power he associates with Lucifer. He glances over his shoulder at Azrael.

She plucks at the clasp of her cloak in feigned nonchalance. She’s never been good at hiding what she was feeling.

“So, how’s… how’s he doing?” she asks. There’s a trickle of light pouring from her clenched fist. The wayward soul she’d come to escort.

Amenadiel directs a pointed glance to her hand.

“You have more important business to see to, little sister. Lucifer is fine.”

Her mouth quirks, like she wants to argue with him. She looks back to the pole where they’d stood, now missing its lantern. 

“I miss him,” she says quietly. Amenadiel inhales to rebuke her but she cuts him off. “I know!”

It’s an uncharacteristic show of anger from her and it surprises him into silence.

She sighs.

“I know. I know, Amenadiel. Whatever you’re going to say, I _know_. It’s… it’s not possible, what I want. I accept that. And I’m not going to fight it, whatever it is that you’re thinking. I’m not going to _rebel_,” she spits the word. Amenadiel wonders if Uriel told her about his concerns, or if she’s merely intuited them.

Azrael pulls her cloak tighter around her body with her unoccupied hand. She flattens the fabric jerkily and scowls down at the ground. 

“I just… I miss him, is all. Don’t you?”

“I see more of him that I would like to,” Amenadiel says dryly. Azrael snorts, but doesn’t seem satisfied.

Amenadiel doesn’t know what to tell her. A moment passes, and she nods, accepting whatever it was she discerned from him, flying back home with the soul in tow.

Amenadiel stays for a minute, taking in the details of the celebration, the decorations, the faces in the crowd. He doesn’t see what Lucifer sees in them, and for the first time, it leaves him feeling disappointed.

~*~

Lucifer is sprawled on his belly in the grass, eye-to-eye with a massive tortoise. The creature’s wrinkled head is extended towards Lucifer. Its black eyes move slightly, inquisitively, perhaps wondering why this lanky archangel has chosen to plop himself down on the grass it was eating.

Amenadiel is wondering the same thing.

It’s unusual to find Lucifer away from human company. Amenadiel scans the island carefully, but there’s no one here but them. He doesn’t bother slowing time.

The tortoise chews contentedly. Lucifer, watching it, smiles faintly.

“I think this is the same turtle I saw the last time I was here,” he says.

It’s not what Amenadiel expects. He frowns at the Devil.

“When were you here before?” he asks.

The last few times he’s collected Lucifer, Lucifer had been sleeping his way through the human population in bustling cities and villages. This remote island is hardly his usual retreat.

“About…oh, let’s see… eighty or so years ago, as it passes on Earth. I came up near here and spent a few hours poking around before I flew off to Rome. This is the same turtle.”

“Eighty years? Luci, nothing mortal lives that long.” The nickname slips out without conscious thought, and Amenadiel winces. It’s been centuries since Lucifer has balked at returning to Hell but Amenadiel knows that he can’t allow himself to become too comfortable.

The archangel makes a disagreeing sound and reaches out to pet the tortoise’s head. It blinks slowly at him.

“Why did you come here?” Amenadiel asks. The sun shines brightly above. The land is verdant and perfumed with flowering plants. It’s a striking change from Hell, but it isn’t Lucifer’s usual fare. He’s curious despite himself.

“Wars on one end, plagues on the other. If I wanted to see that kind of suffering, I’d’ve stayed below,” Lucifer says grumpily.

The oblique reminder of their mother’s meddling with humanity is a sour note for both of them. Lucifer plucks a piece of grass from the ground and pops the end in his mouth, chewing it for a moment before spitting it out.

“Don’t know what you see in it,” Lucifer says to the tortoise. 

The tortoise lowers its head again and rips up another patch of grass in a way that’s nearly sarcastic. The soft pink of its mouth is a bright contrast to its weathered skin. Lucifer returns his hand to propping up his chin.

For a moment, they both watch the animal placidly chewing.

Amenadiel clears his throat.

“Speaking of…” He says pointedly.

Lucifer sighs but pushes himself to his feet. The tortoise takes a step towards him and Lucifer bends to pet its head again.

“It’s definitely the same turtle,” Lucifer says decisively.

Amenadiel rolls his eyes but Lucifer, intent on having the last word, has flown back to Hell before Amenadiel can rebut the ridiculous suggestion.

~*~

Time moves forward, as it inevitably does. Lucifer continues to visit Earth. Amenadiel continues to collect him, even though God has been silent on the matter... silent on pretty much _all _matters... since before Mother was banished.

Amenadiel still struggles to predict Lucifer. His brother is mercurial, whimsical. Detached. The archangel avoids those places that are at war, or that are rampant with disease. He rarely visits the same place twice in a row, allowing centuries to pass on Earth before returning to any particular locale. He is always a stranger to the humans he spends his time with.

Today, Lucifer beds a couple of pretty young women while monsoon rains pound the land outside. 

“Ah, brother, appalling timing as usual,” Lucifer complains. Amenadiel rolls his eyes. 

“You need to return to Hell, Lucifer.”

“I’m a bit in the middle of something here,” Lucifer says. “Go wait outside.”

Through the windows, the raindrops hang in the air so densely that the buildings on the other side of the street are mere blurs. Amenadiel’s wings are wet from flying through it to find Lucifer in the first place. He’s not interested in going back through it, and less interested in waiting outside while it pours in unobstructed time.

“I’ll do not such thing,” he says. 

Lucifer makes an irritated sound.

“Go back to the Silver City, then. I’ll leave when I’m done.”

Amenadiel considers the rain.

“Your word on it, brother?” he asks.

“My word,” Lucifer agrees. “I’ll go back to Hell as soon as I’m finished here on Earth.”

Amenadiel nods. That _would_ make things a lot easier. He scrutinizes Lucifer’s face, looking for falsehood. The debauched angel juts his jaw back stubbornly, daring Amenadiel to accuse him of lying. It’s become a particularly prickly subject for Lucifer ever since the idea of the Devil being the Prince of Lies made its way to his ears. 

“Very well,” Amenadiel says. The room is small and cramped, but he manages to unfurl and return to the Silver City without knocking anything over. 

It takes time for his wings to dry. He stretches them out in the blue gardens, relaxing in the warmth and light while the sky swirls overhead. He sleeps. He wakes. He returns to the peaceful bustling of the gates and, for a while, listens to Uriel speak to the new souls. The questions the humans ask upon arrival are nearly always the same, and Amenadiel doesn't need to have Uriel's talent for patterns to grow bored with the predictability.

He wanders to the crystal chimes and watches the gossamer birds as they wend through the elaborate structures, creating music in their wake.

In Heaven, time passes easily. Minutes and hours and days slip by, one into the next, unburdened and unhurried. 

It takes Amenadiel nearly a week to realize that he should have felt Lucifer departing from Earth some time ago... and hasn't.

~*~

He tracks the Devil down.

Lucifer is getting better at suppressing his power when on Earth. It’s not easy to locate him, and it ends up being another day before Amenadiel finds the right town.

Lucifer has the audacity to sigh with disappointment when Amenadiel arrives. Lucifer and his human companions are bathing in a hot spring. The ground by the springs is soft, but further out, frost and snow cling to the evergreen trees and blanket the earth. 

Lucifer lifts himself out of the pool. His skin gives off steam in the cool air and he’s quick to dress.

Amenadiel grinds his teeth and tries to decide on the right words.

“I wasn’t finished yet,” Lucifer says before Amenadiel makes up his mind. At Amenadiel’s glare, Lucifer elaborates: “I agreed to go back to Hell as soon as I was finished here.” He shrugs, as if this is self-evident. “I wasn’t finished.”

“You’re finished now,” Amenadiel says. Not a question; an order.

Lucifer pushes wet hands back through his curling hair. Frost has already begun to cling to the black strands, giving him an aged appearance.

Amenadiel scowls at the burst of cold air Lucifer sends his way when he opens his wings. 

“Until next time,” Lucifer says lightly. That challenging gleam has found its way back into his eyes, but he does return to Hell.

Amenadiel rubs the bridge of his nose with frustration.

Lucifer had won that round. Amenadiel had allowed himself to be played for a fool, but what can he do about it? It’s not like he can actually go to God for support with this task.

Amenadiel will have to be more careful. He clearly can’t trust Lucifer to return to Hell without an escort. 

He must not to make any more foolish deals with the Devil.

~*~

Lucifer side-eyes him when Amenadiel accompanies him back to Hell the next time, and the time after that, and the time after that, until the escort below is routine.

They don’t mention the change in this dynamic.

Amenadiel believes the actions speak loudly enough for themselves. 

~*~

Amenadiel stumbles upon Lucifer in compromised positions more often than not. His fear that Lucifer would tire of sex seems unfounded – the Devil is a consummate slut and his tastes are broad.

Amenadiel walks into the frozen scene to see Lucifer impaled between two young men. Lucifer glowers over at him from where he’s kneeling, mouth stuffed full and held in place by the hands gripping his hips and tangled in his hair.

Amenadiel closes his eyes and turns away. “I’ll just… I’ll give you a minute,” he says, retreating from the room.

There’s a muffled reply that Amenadiel _thinks_ may have been ‘that’d be great, thanks.’

It’s hard to say.

~*~

“What are you wearing?” Amenadiel asks him when he finds him. 

Lucifer understands that Amenadiel isn’t inquiring about the leggings and tunic. He plucks the glasses off his nose and offers them to Amenadiel.

“Aren’t they clever? It’s to block out the sun. They have a dark quartz around here that the can split thinly enough to see through. Try it,” Lucifer encourages.

Amenadiel puts the glasses on. As promised, it dims the bright light.

“They’re not very comfortable,” Amenadiel says.

“No, they’re not, are they?” Lucifer agrees cheerfully. “Give the humans time, brother. I’m sure they’ll get it right in another few decades. Comfort does tend to follow function with this lot.”

Amenadiel glances around at the beach, trying to put his finger on why the spot seems familiar but it’s eluding him. 

“Shall we?” Lucifer asks. He seems to be in a good humor today. Amenadiel nods and follows the archangel as he dives back to Hell. The Infernal Domain remains much the same as ever – unpleasant, stinking, and far too hot. Lucifer’s wings are strikingly white against the black landscape.

Amenadiel doesn’t linger. He never does after he sees Lucifer back. Hell, after all, is not _Amenadiel’s_ punishment.

On his return, he goes back to the beach. The familiarity is niggling. Gulls cry overhead; water laps at the stones. Lucifer’s footprints are still pressed into the sand, and for a while, Amenadiel follows them, wondering where Lucifer had come from that he’d found himself here, away from human company.

When he spots the cliff, the memory asserts itself like a blow.

The particular rock on which Lucifer had lain seems to have been submerged in the centuries that had since passed on Earth. And, too, the rock on which the suicidal woman had fallen is barely visible above the waves.

Why had Lucifer come _here_?

He hadn’t seemed unsettled or so bleakly obsessed when Amenadiel had spoken to him. Lucifer had, in fact, seemed in good spirits.

Amenadiel fingers the sunglasses that have found their way into his pocket.

Maybe Amenadiel should go easier on Lucifer, the next time he comes up to Earth? Or, maybe another occasion like that Greek play – some engagement with the Devil to try and figure out what he’s thinking?

Amenadiel returns to the Silver City, mind churning through possibilities.

~*~

Lucifer discovers violins on his next trip Earth-side. He stills the bow when Amenadiel descends, but Amenadiel merely finds a comfortable place to sit and waves at Lucifer to continue. It’s late afternoon and traces of the sunset have begun to sneak into the horizon. 

Lucifer has a small audience listening to him play, and in the growing dark, they overlook Amenadiel’s appearance in the shadow of an apple tree.

Lucifer raises the bow back to the instrument. When Amenadiel releases time, Lucifer plays.

The Devil is a musician. His elegant fingers dance along the neck of the violin, fingertips sometimes plucking the strings for a different sort of sound. Amenadiel is the only one in the crowd not tapping his feet to the jaunty music.

Lucifer plays a song to completion, and then glances at Amenadiel in a silent question. Amenadiel nods at him to continue, and Lucifer picks something sweetly melodic to play this time. The instrument sounds nearly like a human voice. It’s peculiar and beautiful and quite unlike any of the instruments that have captured Lucifer’s attention before.

The sun sets completely. Lucifer’s stars glow across the open sky. When Lucifer lowers the instrument again several songs later, the humans applaud, and once Lucifer rises and joins him, Amenadiel obligingly slows time.

“Did you enjoy the music?” Lucifer asks him.

Amenadiel isn’t sure how to reply. He did enjoy the music, but he isn’t sure what answer will both satisfy Lucifer and encourage him to return to Hell.

Lucifer shrieks the bow across the strings, producing such an abrupt, terrible noise that Amenadiel flinches. 

“That sounds _just like_ the echo in one of Hell’s calderas,” Lucifer muses, unaffected by the racket and unconcerned by Amenadiel’s silence. He plays a few melodic notes; trills and arpeggios, and stops. “I wonder if any of this sound would work below. Maybe there’s a way of using the acoustics and warp to actually make some music down there.”

He gives the instrument a considering glance.

“Shall we see?” Amenadiel says.

Lucifer meets his eyes with a surprised expression.

“‘_We’_?” Lucifer repeats incredulously.

It’s a gamble, but Amenadiel weighs the discomfort of a few moments in Hell against the possibility that this will satisfy Lucifer - and, more importantly, that it will keep him in Hell longer.

“Lead the way,” Amenadiel says.

With one more hesitant glance at him, the archangel spreads his wings and slips through the membrane separating Earth and Hell. Amenadiel follows.

Lucifer flies through the thick black clouds and fall of ash for several minutes, leading Amenadiel past row upon endless row of loop doors, lava pools, wide plains shrouded in a burning fog with vague and monstrous shapes shifting within. Eventually they come upon a bowl-shaped depression in the black ground. Sharp, black stalagmites jut up, some as small as his fingers, the tips as sharp as razors. This place carries the same heavy atmosphere and stench as the rest of Hell, but as they land, and Amenadiel’s sandals disturb the small pebbles that lay scattered across the rock, he thinks he understands what Lucifer was talking about. The way the sound of the movement bounces back is… different, here. The echo is still twisted and warped, as is the nature of Hell, but Amenadiel finds himself curious about this experiment.

Lucifer folds away his wings, raises the violin to his chin, and puts the bow to the strings.

Amenadiel watches Lucifer take a deep breath, and another, and then he straightens his back and plays.

The bow rasps along the strings, and the noise it creates is painful. Lucifer tries again. Amenadiel thinks that Lucifer is trying to play one of the songs he played on Earth – the way his fingers move looks familiar – but it’s an atonal mess. The sounds shift out of rhythm, and grow louder and louder as Lucifer grows more frustrated and plays harder. He drags the bow across the strings and the noise is mangled and sinister.

Lucifer throws the violin away with a furious growl. The instrument splinters against the rocks, wood and strings scattering quite far for how hard he had thrown it. The bow follows.

Lucifer’s chest heaves with his angry breathing, until it doesn’t. He smooths back his hair and turns to face Amenadiel again. He’s smiling, and it’s eerie.

“Well, that didn’t work,” Lucifer says simply. He brushes off his hands, as if dismissing the entire endeavor. Lucifer turns his back on the splintered ruin left of the instrument. There’s something very final about it.

“Perhaps if you tried –” Amenadiel starts.

“No,” Lucifer cuts him off sharply. He’s still smiling, but the word was a biting syllable. Lucifer clears his throat. “No, brother. I know Hell. It adapts. And it is always _exactly_ what it is.”

The white glow of Lucifer’s wings, when they emerge, is a stark contrast to the black decay and harshness around him. It strikes Amenadiel anew - as if he had forgotten - that this angel was _Samael_, once upon a time.

“Back to it then, brother,” Lucifer says. His wings stretch and curl, but he pauses before taking to the sky. “Thank you. For humoring me.” 

Amenadiel watches Lucifer leave. 

In his absence, the darkness and filthy ambiance of Hell gradually reasserts itself. Amenadiel can hear the distant moaning and screaming of the damned souls inside their loop doors; the bubble and hiss of the shifting, burning ground further off. Occasionally, a demonic cackle carries on the wind.

Amenadiel spreads his wings and flies over the landscape, looking at Hell as if seeing it for the first time. _It adapts_, Lucifer had said. _It is always _exactly_ what it is. _A place of punishment. Of suffering. 

The throne looms ahead and Amenadiel turns his flight path upwards and away.

The glimpse of Lucifer that he sees before he leaves the realm behind is red-skinned and scarred.

~*~

A renaissance of art and fashion and music overtake parts of Europe. Lucifer can’t seem to stay away. Amenadiel is still on-edge from Lucifer’s trip to the cliff and the disaster of his attempt to bring music to Hell. He is leery of being too unkind or insistent in sending Lucifer back to Hell. The balance between them feels too delicate for heavy-handedness.

Still. The Devil tries his patience with the frequency of his visits these days.

Lucifer poses for paintings, pours over architectural designs, tinkers with new inventions, and regularly informs Amenadiel about the latest theological upsets and intrigues. Amenadiel can’t say he approves of the derisive contempt with which Lucifer speaks of the devout, but he also knows how to pick his battles. God will always be a touchy subject for his brother, and, too, the human’s perception of ‘Satan.’

Amenadiel finds himself reading Dante’s work just for context to Lucifer’s rants.

Amenadiel will say this for humans – they’re creative.

“Three faces! _Bat _wings, Amenadiel!” Lucifer yells at him, as if Amenadiel was the source of this particular bit of slander.

“Well, he was right about the labyrinthine nature of Hell. And that you rule it. And that you punish people,” Amenadiel offers.

Lucifer makes a rude noise. “_Oh_, I hope that little Italian runt ended up in my care. We need to have words.” He rubs his hands over his face, still mumbling. Amenadiel hears the phrase ‘ice up to his tits’ and rolls his eyes.

“It will pass, Luci. No one will remember that poet in another hundred years.”

“That’s not the point, Amenadiel.”

“What is the point, then?” Amenadiel counters.

Lucifer clenches his fists, irritation pouring off of him.

“The point… the point is…” Amenadiel has rarely seen Lucifer struggle for words like this. Lucifer chews his lip, eyes skimming across the cobblestones. 

“They see me as a low, evil _monster_, deserving of eternal punishment. They go about their lives making mistake after mistake after mistake, but for them…” He trails off, staring at the humans in the marketplace with naked envy. 

Amenadiel doesn’t like where this conversation is going.

“They didn’t betray God,” Amenadiel says, and his tone leaves no room for argument.

For a taut moment, it seems that Lucifer didn’t hear him at all. But, slowly, the archangel nods, not quite looking at Amenadiel. Lucifer swallows, shakes his head. 

“Yes,” Lucifer says. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

~*~

For the next several trips to Earth, Lucifer engages the humans in nothing more than meaningless sex. 

It’s a relief.

~*~

The humans find a way to mass produce written – or printed, as it were – texts. They invent guns, telescopes, microscopes, medicines. Amenadiel can only imagine what Lucifer’s hoard of human objects looks like these days. 

Decades pass, but the flood of human innovation doesn’t seem to be slowing down. Every new generation seems to build on the works of the previous ones, creating something more efficient, more accessible, cleverer. Bit by bit, the humans are changing the world. Amenadiel walks through the bustling cities as he tracks Lucifer down, and he can barely recall a time when the entire human world had been a garden, a man, and a woman.

Amenadiel starts to wonder if he’s underestimated them. From the way Lucifer interacts with humans, he wonders if, somehow, Lucifer had seen this potential in them from the beginning.

The Devil is enamored with every new invention, every new play and style and piece of art. He drags his feet and wheedles for more time nearly every visit.

Amenadiel is still able to stop those requests with mentions of involving their father, but as every trip to Earth seems to offer up new delights, he worries about how long the hollow threats will hold. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A sincere 'thank you' to Obliobla for the theology info, and to whopooh for pointing me in the direction of a perfectly 'deus ex machina' play. Thank you!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of these days, I'm going to be right about the number of chapters it takes to tell a story. Today is not that day.

Much of the world is engaged with wars, plagues, or famines. It creates a lull in Lucifer’s visits to Earth, which had been coming frequently for quite a while.

Amenadiel walks through the Silver City, marveling at how vast it has grown since the beginning. He decides to take a break from reading and wades into one of the quiet golden pools, away from the busier parts of Heaven, and lets his mind and body drift. 

No sooner is he completely relaxed than he feels a ripple of power on Earth.

“Oh, come on,” he grouses.

~*~

For a moment, Amenadiel doesn't understand what he's looking at. The bonfire roars high and the crowd gathered around it has such a mix of expressions – glee, disgust, fear – that Amenadiel realizes quickly there's something important about this fire in particular. He regards the flames again. The shape within resolves itself almost against his will. 

“What are they doing?” Amenadiel whispers, nausea and horror tightening his throat.

Lucifer detaches himself from the crowd and comes to stand by Amenadiel's side. In the slowed drag of time, the woman in the pyre is suspended in a gruesome rictus of screaming agony, her flesh melting and burning. The air is thick with the smell of it.

“They're murdering her for being a witch,” Lucifer says. His voice is calm but his eyes reflect the fire. “For consorting with the Devil.”

“Did you...? Did she...?” Amenadiel doesn't know what to ask. Humans have been brutal to each other before, he knows this, but he's seen it rarely. Lucifer tends to avoid bloodshed and suffering when he comes to Earth. 

“I've never seen her before in my life,” Lucifer says flatly. His sweeps his burning gaze over the assemblage of spectators. A priest stands close to the fire, a bible brandished high in his hand and a satisfied smile curving his thin lips. It's clear that he's in charge of this... event.

“You’ve missed the part where he condemned her to Hell for her imaginary sins,” Lucifer says. “So very sure of his righteousness and that he speaks for God. You two would get along. Do you know what, though, I don’t think she’s going. Shall we see?”

Amenadiel frowns at the comparison to this deluded human. 

“I am nothing like him,” Amenadiel says.

Lucifer makes a non-committal grunt. He’s regarding the woman being burned to death with a considering expression; his anger there, but banked low in his red eyes.

It pricks at Amenadiel’s pride – and, more annoyingly, at his curiosity. He finds a place in the shadowed slope of the church roof, not far from the center where the fire roars. From here, he has a clear view of both the execution and Lucifer’s profile. He releases time.

Amenadiel had braced for the agonized screaming, but the cheers and jeering from the crowd are a sickening surprise. 

The fire spits and crackles. The priest shouts scripture. The woman’s tortured shrieking breaks and reforms into something even more pitiful and desperate, and breaks again.

Unwilling to watch her suffering, Amenadiel watches Lucifer instead. The Devil stares at the fire with a detachment that Amenadiel nearly envies. But it is, he realizes, far from the first time Lucifer will have heard screams like this.

It takes the woman several more minutes to die – for such fragile creatures, humans could be so resilient sometimes. 

He and Lucifer both watch that faint, intangible piece of her detach from her burned mortal flesh. They watch her soul ascend.

Amenadiel sees Lucifer’s lips move as he mutters something, but between the distance and the noise of the fire and crowd, the words are lost to him. He takes control of time again, and the quiet that accompanies it is a relief. He walks back to Lucifer’s side.

“Well, brother, I hope you’ll enjoy your new company,” Lucifer says, nodding casually to the blackened corpse, to the upward path the soul had taken.

Amenadiel imagines finding this woman’s soul in the Silver City. While he avoids the human souls by and large, he’s encountered them enough to know that many are confused and bitter after their deaths. He understands _why_ now, better than he used to.

A flash of white draws his attention back to Lucifer. The archangel stretches his wings nearly out to their full span, curling them slightly around the milling humans, and relaxes them, bringing them closer to his back. Lucifer shifts his primaries, ruffling at the barrier separating this plane from Hell.

The Devil sighs.

“Bloody wasted this trip, then, didn’t I? Could’ve gone to see what the tortoise is getting up to but oh, no, just couldn’t resist that rich smell of religious hypocrisy.”

“It’s _not_ the same tortoise,” Amenadiel says, choosing the less volatile part of that sentence to respond to.

“I imagine he’ll be mine in a few more years,” Lucifer says, nodding to the priest. “Blind hatred that fierce tends to wrap around deep-seated guilt.” He sniffs. “Well. I suppose I should make sure he has a warm welcome waiting for him.”

Lucifer brushes his hands down his trousers and gives the congregation one more contemptuous look.

“_Definitely _skipping this part of the world next time,” he says decisively.

Amenadiel inhales to remind Lucifer that there doesn’t need to be a ‘next time,’ as he always does, but Lucifer chooses that moment to flap his wings and return to Hell.

Amenadiel exhales - annoyed that, once again, his brother has gotten the last word.

~*~

It takes a while to track Lucifer down on his following visit. Amenadiel assumed Lucifer was trying to hide from him but, once he found the Devil, he thinks instead that Lucifer was just keeping his power coiled tight. He wonders, not for the first time, if Lucifer knows it’s that angelic power that lets Amenadiel find him. Maybe he assumes God is giving Amenadiel directions.

Amenadiel decides not to mention it.

“Ah,” Lucifer says, carefully not moving. “Well. Not the _best_ timing.” 

Lucifer lays on his back on a table that’s been set up near the middle of the room. One hand lies tucked behind his head; the other flat along his side. He’s naked, save for the artistically placed flowers and sushi.

“Would you like to try some?” Lucifer asks, tipping his nose slightly in the direction of the line of rolls that adorn his bicep. “I’m afraid I’ll be engaged here for a few hours. They did such a meticulous job of setting all of this up – it’d be terribly rude if I ran off now and ruined it. We did make an agreement, after all.”

Amenadiel casts his eyes Heaven-ward for patience.

“Ironically,” Lucifer continues blithely. “If you’d popped in yesterday, the bondage fun we got into would’ve been fairly easy to disentangle myself from. Oh, you should see how clever they are with knots and ropes, Amenadiel. So delightfully creative.”

Lucifer’s smile is soft and pleased. Between that and the vulnerable position he lies in, it makes him look younger. 

One of the people eating sushi off of him has one of Lucifer’s nipples pinched between their chopsticks. The playful grin frozen on their face makes it clear it wasn’t an accident. 

“Or, if you’re not in the mood for fish, there’s this amazing shop down the corner that makes this... noodly broth thing.” The tips of Lucifer’s fingers flex. It’s an effort for him not to move as he talks, and Amenadiel thinks that this, too, is part of the ‘bondage fun’ Lucifer’s been sampling.

“If I leave you here for a few hours,” Amenadiel says, sighing. “Do I have your word you’ll still be here when I come back?”

“Ohhh, would you like to make a deal too? Lovely.” A bright flash of teeth as Lucifer smiles. “I’ll remain in this city until you return, _if_, I get to stay through the evening. Agreed?”

Amenadiel weighs it up. Lucifer will probably be on this table for several hours yet. Judging by the looks on the faces around him, an orgy seems likely after that. On a relative scale of the trouble Lucifer _could_ be getting up to, it ranks low.

“Deal,” he agrees. It’s a small price for Lucifer’s good humor, and Amenadiel just _knows_ that it won’t last.

~*~

Lucifer is effulgent as he watches the fighting in the street. It had taken Amenadiel time to locate Lucifer in the mayhem. 

It’s not the sort of place Lucifer would normally choose to visit. He’s avoided wars and conflicts with intent, but this conflagration has, for whatever reason, caught his eye.

“Luci,” Amenadiel says. Lucifer leans against a shopfront wall. The windows are shattered and glass shards scatter the ground at his feet. Further down the street, the frozen scene is hard to decipher. People fighting, bleeding, shouting – some in uniforms, some in plain clothes. It’s impossible to decide which side is winning or even what the sides _are_. To Amenadiel’s eye, it’s absolute chaos.

“The people have taken the Bastille,” Lucifer says. There’s a giddy sort of breathlessness in his voice. “They’re tearing down the entire _concept_ of the monarchy. No more ‘the king as a conduit of God’ for _this_ lot.”

“What is… happening?” Amenadiel asks slowly. 

“They desire more, desire better, and they’re _fighting _for it,” Lucifer answers, and his pride is nearly a tangible thing. “They’re _rebelling_.”

Amenadiel has seized time just as one of the revolutionaries had his throat cut. The spray of blood hangs in an arc above the cobblestones, not quite obscuring the feral snarl on the man’s face.

“They’re dying,” Amenadiel says.

Lucifer nods, his glee diminishing but not extinguished. 

“They were already dying. Now they’re dying _for_ something.”

There are fires burning somewhere further off. Amenadiel had seen bodies in the streets and alleys in his quest to track down Lucifer. Men, women, and children alike have been swept up in this battle.

“Heaven will be busy,” Lucifer muses. 

“And Hell,” Amenadiel agrees. 

Lucifer sighs and pushes himself off the wall. 

“Shame that the patisseries were swept up in the riots. I’ve had such a craving for macarons, and the baker that owes me a favor is dead. I don’t suppose I can pop by Florence for a moment?” There’s a hopeful curl to Lucifer’s wings as they emerge.

It’s tempting.

“How about a deal,” Lucifer says, reading Amenadiel’s hesitation. “We hop over to Italy, have some tasty treats, and... hmmm… judging by your scowl, how about I agree to stay out of France until this dust settles?”

Amenadiel tries to remember why ‘Italy’ rings a bell. 

“I promise, no picking fights with idiots if it’s at all avoidable,” Lucifer wheedles in the pause while Amenadiel thinks it over, and the memory of Lucifer shouting invectives at clergymen over Galileo’s condemnation comes rushing back.

Amenadiel takes a deep breath and weighs his options. Behind the childlike expression Lucifer is wearing, the archangel is flushed with excitement. It isn’t good for him to stay here, Amenadiel knows with a cold certainty.

“Deal,” he agrees. 

He wants Lucifer as far away as possible from this rebellion and its poisonous ideas. 

Amenadiel tries not to worry about how many of these deals he’s been making lately. _They’re harmless_, he tells himself.

~*~

The palace is lavishly decorated, brightly lit. The humans are throwing some sort of party. The tables are heavy with food and wine. Lucifer stands by a woman that Amenadiel immediately takes to be a ruler of some sort. 

Ruffles of white fabric spill out at Lucifer’s throat and at his wrists. He’s clean-shaven and his hair is shorter than Amenadiel has seen it since his days of frequenting Rome. Pearl buttons make neat lines down Lucifer’s waistcoat and along his sleeves but he’s otherwise dressed in black. It makes him stand out from the more colorful crowd. 

“Amenadiel!” Lucifer calls. There’s a looseness in the way he holds himself that makes Amenadiel think he’s on his way to being drunk, but perhaps not quite there yet. “Amenadiel, come meet Catherine. Do you know they’ve figured out a way to prevent smallpox? They’re conquering plagues! Bet Mum never saw _that _coming.” He laughs and moves to take a sip from the glass in his hand, remembers that time is stalled, and lowers the cup again. He waves his hand impatiently at Amenadiel. “Come, brother, stay a moment. The dancing should begin any minute now. I can teach you the steps. It’s quite fun!”

Something feels… off… about the way that Lucifer speaks. His enthusiasm is manic but Amenadiel can’t shake the feeling that it’s a brittle veneer over a vast darkness. Something in the way Lucifer’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes, or in the way he doesn't quite look at Amenadiel.

Amenadiel cocks his head at Lucifer, considering. He nods and steps out of the crowd, into a less-busy corner, and allows time to resume. The party-goers around him give him appraising looks – Amenadiel stands out too, with his dark skin, bald head, and long robes – but Lucifer is quick to play along.

“Brother!” Lucifer says cheerfully. He steps away from the Queen’s side and slips a hand around Amenadiel’s back, guiding him forward. With the heels he’s wearing, Lucifer is noticeably taller than Amenadiel. The annoyance of that fact distracts Amenadiel through the first part of what Lucifer is saying. “Your majesty, allow me to introduce Amenadiel, first-born of the angels, God’s chosen warrior -”

Amenadiel slams time to a halt again.

“Lucifer,” he growls. “What are you doing?”

Lucifer laughs and laughs. His hand, around Amenadiel’s back, is tight and trembling.

“It’s a _joke_, brother. These mortals don’t think I’m really the Devil.” He steps away from Amenadiel and opens his arms, encompassing the room. “The Queen I don’t think would care even if she did believe me. She drives priests out into the fields to work, empties the monasteries, and you should _see_ her personal collection of artwork and toys. It’s the rise of irreverence, and _such_ a breath of fresh air!”

Oh, this is dangerous. This is _so dangerous_, Amenadiel thinks.

“You’re telling me they don’t fear God anymore?”

Lucifer’s grin is all teeth as he leans closer to Amenadiel. 

“For them, it’s been such a long time since there’s been any proof. Generations on generations on generations have lived and died without any help from Him. God is becoming a story, and as for the Devil? Well, I’m just a metaphor for all of those deep, dark desires that they so badly want to act on. A metaphor!”

Amenadiel can’t tell if Lucifer is angry about this development or delighted. Perhaps both. The black pools of Lucifer’s eyes seem deep and endless and reflect the light strangely. 

“Do you think God will strike them down? Bury Saint Petersburg in fire and ash, or split the ground to swallow it up?” Lucifer smiles wider. “I don’t think He will. And neither do they. Clever little things.”

Amenadiel feels a cold trickle of uneasy run up his spine. Does Lucifer know that Amenadiel has been lying about God’s support? Lucifer’s eyes track over Amenadiel’s face, and Amenadiel forces himself to be firm, to show no reaction.

“Humans were given free will, Lucifer. It is God’s design that they should choose for themselves, even if it means choosing foolishly.” He gives Lucifer a pointed look. “Perhaps _especially _if they choose foolishly. You know better than most that there are consequences for their actions.”

Lucifer’s hand slips into one of the pockets of his waistcoat as he turns away from Amenadiel. Amenadiel sees a glitter of silver in his hand; a small coin that Lucifer flips contemplatively.

“It’s so rarely about what they deserve, you know,” Lucifer says quietly. “Eternity boils down to the simplest factor of _guilt_, which is nothing at all without the values that they themselves choose to impose on it.”

“God has a plan, Lucifer.”

“‘God has a plan,’” The Devil repeats mockingly. The coin rotates above his open palm, turning and spinning as he flicks his thumb. The coin doesn’t quite touch his skin and hovers in the air slightly above his hand. A relic of Hell, perhaps. Or some new human invention. Lucifer’s eyes stay fixed on the spinning coin as he speaks. “It’s a line that they say as well, you know - when something terrible and meaningless happens. My child was crushed by a carriage wheel. God has a plan. My husband rapes me. It’s in God’s plan. The storms have destroyed our crops and we shall starve. It’s as God wills it.”

Lucifer snatches the coin out of the air and tucks it neatly back into his pocket.

“What do _you _think, Amenadiel?”

“Me?”

There’s a red gleam in Lucifer’s eyes. An intensity that Amenadiel very much wants to diffuse, but he isn’t sure how.

“You, Amenadiel. Do you think God cares about their pain? Does He delight in them suffering for their guilt? Does it bother Him at all that Hell expands in infinite measure?”

Amenadiel is silent. Lucifer scoffs and lifts his wine cup, rolling it in his hands.

“Do you know how many beg for God’s forgiveness while I torture them? I’ve heard the words in every language, with every iteration of every deity they’ve ever created. He’s never saved a single one of them.”

“Lucifer- ”

“Do you know how many beg _me _for forgiveness? How many ask me _why?_”

“Lucifer, stop -”

“They say they're sorry. Scream it until their throats bleed, and then keep on screaming it. They're sorry, they're _sorry_, please, God, forgive them, please stop, and He _never does_. No matter how sincere their suffering or remorse, He never saves them. And what if it's never enough? What if it's not _ever_ enough? An _eternity_ of unimaginable torment for their mistakes, and Amenadiel - if that's true for them, for the humans He claims to love, then -”

“Lucifer, STOP!” Amenadiel demands and finally, mercifully, Lucifer falls silent. The Devil's chest heaves with emotion. The fires of Hell are a red glow deep in his pupils but his eyes are wet, and Amenadiel looks away.

For a beat, neither says a word. It seems that the echo of Amenadiel's shout hangs in the air.

Lucifer sets his cup down and the small noise of it is too loud.

“Why not stay for the dancing, brother?” Lucifer asks. His tone has gone back to lightly conversational, as it he hadn't just been yelling. He thumbs his eyes, brushing away the unshed tears, and when he turns back to Amenadiel, his composure is restored.

“I don't think that would be a good idea,” Amenadiel says. 

“No?” Lucifer grins, fast and hollow. “Well, let's at least say our goodbyes, then. It wouldn't do to simply vanish before them. After all, they’re doing so well in letting go of guilt. Wouldn’t want any proof of divinity to set them back.”

Lucifer paces back to stand before the Queen and gestures for Amenadiel to join him. There's still a mountain of tension between them but Amenadiel concedes, stepping into the spot he’d previously occupied. With an exhale, he lets time resume.

“Your majesty,” Lucifer says, smiling charmingly. “I’m ever so sorry, but it seems I was mistaken and we have pressing business elsewhere. Enjoy the party.”

“I’m sure someone needs to keep Hell toasty,” she laughs, and Lucifer laughs too, like it isn’t appalling that that sentiment would come from a human. Lucifer bows with a flourish and kisses her hand. At a sharp elbow to Amenadiel's side, Amenadiel nods at the woman as well. The Queen raises her eyebrows high in answer to that but, thankfully, doesn’t try to make more of it. Amenadiel is in no mood to pretend her cares about this era’s version of social niceties.

Lucifer leads him away from the ballroom, down colorful if shadowed hallways until they were away from scrutiny. Once free of curious humans, Amenadiel slows time once more. 

Lucifer smiles over at him as the dancing motion of the candles in their sconces stretch and slow. The white of Lucifer’s teeth glints in the low light, predatory and unnerving. 

“Aren’t you curious, Amenadiel?” Lucifer asks him.

“About what?” Amenadiel’s words are short, clipped. He’s hoping to dissuade Lucifer from pursing this conversation, but when has what Amenadiel wanted ever held Lucifer back?

“About what they’ll do next, of course. They’re starting to understand that their religion peddlers are ignorant and corrupt. I think it won’t be long at all until they stop listening to them. Won’t that be _wonderful_, Amenadiel? Can you imagine it? No more letting some faint idea of a distant God hold them back from their true desires. No more guilt for inconsequential mistakes or -”

“Is that what this is about?” Amenadiel interrupts. “You think if they discard morality, they’ll stop coming to Hell?”

The glare Lucifer returns is cold. Amenadiel has no more patience for this. 

“If you think yourself above His judgment, it is _far_ past time that you returned to where you belong,” Amenadiel snaps. 

Lucifer smooths his hands down his waistcoat, his still-trembling fingertips brushing the lines of buttons. The Devil’s wings add more light to the dim hallway and make the black of Lucifer’s suit seem even darker; deepen the shadows of Lucifer’s brow and cheekbones. 

“I, for one, can’t _wait_ to see what comes next,” Lucifer says.

The sharp unfurling of his wings as he flies below is too loud in the enclosed space. 

Amenadiel should follow after him, make _sure_ that Lucifer has returned to Hell, as has become their standard procedure.

But not today. Amenadiel is confident that Lucifer did go back to Hell, and he wants space from the Devil.

_Some faint idea of a distant God_, Lucifer had said, and it struck hard. 

Lucifer’s words swirl in Amenadiel’s brain and leave him feeling sick. He looks around the hallway – dim, but still flourished with opulent gold accents – and he feels as though all of this exposure to humanity leaves a film on his skin.

He flies back to Heaven, shuddering with disgust. 

The silence from God is unchanged.

~*~

Heaven offers him a peaceful environment to sort out his tumultuous thoughts. 

Weeks pass, and Amenadiel turns Lucifer’s words over and over. Under the Devil’s reluctant acceptance of his duties, there’s so much dissatisfaction and contempt that it _must _come to a head, sooner or later. 

Amenadiel doesn’t _understand_ Lucifer. That Lucifer hasn’t balked – not truly- at being returned to Hell speaks of his desire for God’s approval, even in disgrace. But then the _things he says_…

Add to that his unnatural attachment to humans, who catalyzed his rebellion in the first place. Is he drawn to them merely by envy for their free will? Amenadiel had thought so, once upon a time, but he knows doubt. Many of the favors Lucifer grants are self-serving, but Amenadiel has seen too many instances over the centuries where Lucifer is clearly giving more than he’s getting. _Why?_ If it’s pure selfishness, pure greed, then why do so many of the Devil’s favors benefit Lucifer little if at all?

Amenadiel recalls the words Lucifer had shouted at him - _Do you know how many beg me for forgiveness? How many ask me **why**?_

He wonders if Lucifer offers favors so widely on Earth because those simpler requests are something he can actually offer the mortals.

Amenadiel feels something dangerously like empathy, and he tries to shove the thoughts away.

~*~

There are tear-tracks on Lucifer’s face when he whips around to glare at Amenadiel. The orchestra hall is crowded full of people. Lucifer rises from his balcony seat and shouts down at him.

“No, Amenadiel, no, we’re just getting to the good part!”

The desire on Lucifer’s face is naked, and Amenadiel is so startled by the tears that he leans back against the entrance and lets time resume without protest.

Music swells and fills the space. Lucifer sits back down and stares at the musicians, unashamedly enthralled. The drums and low bass notes rattle in Amenadiel’s chest; the strings and woodwinds duel along the melody, both made rich by the brass instruments that drive them forward. Amenadiel has never heard music like this before. It’s passionate, angry – and beautiful. Undeniably beautiful.

Amenadiel has never been as moved by music as Lucifer, but he understands why this has drawn the Devil in. There’s a rawness in the way the climax of the piece builds and builds and _builds_. The musicians sweat and grimace and grin like feral things with the exertion. The conductor sways and rocks with the music, baton cutting the air and drawing forth emotion like blood. 

When the piece concludes, Amenadiel takes a deep breath, recentering himself while the audience wildly applauds. 

Lucifer is on his feet, clapping with them. Amenadiel allows him another moment and, when Lucifer at last sighs happily and wipes his cheeks clean, Amenadiel takes hold of time.

Lucifer hops over the balcony and lands in the aisle below.

“Did you know that was his _fifth_ symphony? There are four more of these!” Lucifer excitement dims and he cuts his eyes to the side. He purses his lips and nods to himself. “I’ll have to watch for this the next time I’m back. Who knows when they’ll play them again?”

Disappointment has crept in, snuffing his enthusiasm. Lucifer smiles at Amenadiel, but it doesn’t match the look in his eyes. 

It sparks pity, deep and low in Amenadiel’s belly. Pity that Lucifer probably won’t ever get to hear those symphonies. Pity that Hell robs him of music, for the opportunities to hear music like this, for –

No.

No.

Amenadiel shuts the feelings down. He squares his shoulders and reminds himself of his duty. Hell is Lucifer’s _well-earned_ punishment. 

He keeps forgetting. He keeps letting his guard down around Lucifer, when he knows it’s a foolish error.

Amenadiel is angry at himself for the lapse; for the _softness_ that has weakened his resolve.

“Get back to Hell, Lucifer,” he says, and his voice is rough and unkind. 

Lucifer blinks at him, jarred by the abrupt change in mood. He narrows his eyes at Amenadiel and, after a beat, shrugs, as if entirely unbothered. A ploy fell through. The Devil will be patient.

Amenadiel reminds himself that he _must_ _not _underestimate Lucifer.

“Very well, brother,” Lucifer says, drawling the familial word out with contempt. 

~*~

The tavern is filthy and dimly lit. The floor is sticky and Amenadiel’s sandals make soft _thwick _sounds as he walks along the disgusting floorboards. 

Lucifer sits at the bar. A multitude of empty glasses line the space in front of him, but his attention is on the small, burning stick between his fingertips. He holds the match vertically and seems entirely content to watch the flame eat its way down the wood.

Lucifer’s mouth is slightly open, the tip of his tongue tracing his upper lip. Amenadiel can tell that Lucifer is drunk even before the Devil speaks.

“Ah,” Lucifer says, not looking away from the match. In the crawl of time, the little lick of flame barely moves. Lucifer doesn’t seem to notice. He doesn’t look away from the fire. “Amenadiel. Was wondering when you’d come by. Look at what they’ve made.” He nods at his preoccupied fingertips. “They do this… this chemical thing on the tip, so it ignites if you strike it. No need for flint anymore. You’ll never guess what they called them.”

The discarded boxes lie in a haphazard stack beside Lucifer’s empty glasses. A pile of black, burnt sticks with only the tiniest bit of uncharred wood at the base accompany the mess. He must have been letting the flame extinguish itself on his skin. From the size of the pile, he’s been at this for hours, at least.

The match boxes, under a flowery provenance script, are printed with the word: “LUCIFERS.”

Lucifer’s free hand drifts across the bar top and closes around one of the few glasses that still contain liquor. Amenadiel settles into the seat beside Lucifer and relaxes his hold on time. Lucifer draws the glass to his mouth and tosses the contents back. The flame sinks down the match until it burns out harmlessly against Lucifer’s fingers.

Lucifer pulls another match out of the box and strikes the tip. Flame sputters to life, and he holds the match up again to watch the flame fall lower, and lower, and lower.

~*~

The Devil has shaken off his melancholy snit the next time he visits Earth. He falls back into a familiar, far more comfortable pattern of sex and revelry. Sometimes, he’ll tell Amenadiel about the poets and writers that are emerging, or politics, or art. Little asides as Lucifer dresses again and accepts his escort back to Hell. 

In a Parisian club, Lucifer dances on stage with a line of women, as coifed and decorated as they are. He holds up his skirt and kicks the ruffled layers high along with them, laughing as the stage lights melt their makeup and the drunken crowd whistles and leers. In England, he rides a steam locomotive (and, from what Amenadiel can discern, probably half of the occupants of the train as well). Lucifer poses for erotic daguerreotypes, drinks carbonated beverages, gushes about antiseptics and batteries and Morse code and telegraphs. 

Lucifer shows him a tiny, yapping, canine-like creature and, at Amenadiel’s bewilderment, explains how humans have selectively bred traits for generations, distilling a wolf down to… this.

“What’s wrong with its _face_?” Amenadiel asks. 

“I _know_, right?” Lucifer says, returning the dog to the woman, tipping his silk top-hat at her in thanks. “Give it another hundred years and I bet they won’t even be able to breathe. All for the aesthetics.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Ha! Have you seen corsets yet?” 

Near the turn of the century, he finds Lucifer in a movie house, watching images played on a screen. Amenadiel is so surprised and impressed with the mechanism that Lucifer doesn’t even need to ask him for more time. Amenadiel takes a seat near the back and watches the film play out with the rest of the crowd.

It’s a mad, mad pace that the humans are setting. It can’t possibly last. There will be another plague, he is sure - or a fire that wipes out their libraries again, or more wars - it’s always the way with the humans. Always a fall to accompany their rise.

~*~

It’s… sex? Lucifer sits lengthwise on a bed opposite a human, his legs bent like a grasshopper and his weight balanced back on his hands. Amenadiel looks at the man’s slick erection, clasped between Lucifer’s pale feet. The man wears an expression of obvious enjoyment, but the entire scene is baffling. 

“Five more minutes,” Lucifer requests. 

Amenadiel shakes his head and leaves the room. He has given up on trying to understand human sexuality.

~*~

War breaks out as predicted, spreading across continents, and Amenadiel breaths a little easier. Wars have always made Lucifer delay his trips to Earth and leave without much fuss when he does come up.

Lucifer finds smaller cities and settlements, away from the fighting. Mexico, Peru, Afghanistan. There are always parties to be found or created. Always humans that are drawn to Lucifer and spill out their desires; always people eager to embrace what he offers.

Lucifer is in Switzerland - fully-dressed for a change and dining in an outdoor café - arguing with Amenadiel about the edibility of something the Devil claims is cheese and what Amenadiel maintains smells like rot, when cheering breaks out further down the street. 

Amenadiel’s heart sinks. With his luck, it’ll be some new invention that will preoccupy Lucifer and make him that much harder to wrangle back to Hell. Then hears the word ‘armistice.’

“What’s that about, then?” Lucifer muses. Amenadiel should have suspended time but there hadn’t seemed to be any need. He regrets the decision. If the war is over, Lucifer will certainly try to stay longer.

Lucifer rises from his seat, the spread of food and wine forgotten as he tosses money on the table. 

“Shall we see?” Lucifer asks, and Amenadiel wants to say ‘no.’ But Lucifer is already hopping over the fence separating the café’s tables from the rest of the street before Amenadiel answers.

Amenadiel gives an annoyed sigh and follows his brother. 

~*~

Lucifer gleefully tells him about the prohibition of alcohol while he pours a generous glass of bourbon. Music – new music, _jazz_ music – adds a sultriness to the smoky atmosphere. Women wear short skirts and dance while the singer croons lyrics about the Devil. 

“Isn’t it _marvelous_?” Lucifer asks. He takes a deep draw off his cigarette, exhaling slowly. 

Amenadiel seizes time. Lucifer growls with annoyance.

“This isn’t a social call, Luci. Your return to the underworld has been requested.”

“Can I at least have a few minutes? I’m a bit in the middle of something here.”

“Now, Lucifer,” Amenadiel says firmly.

Lucifer gives him a challenging stare. He waves towards his lap with his cigarette.

“There’s a young man kneeling under this tablecloth. I’m _in the middle of something_, Amenadiel.”

It takes a second for the dots to connect. When they do, Amenadiel takes a step backwards and grimaces. “While I was talking to you? _Really_?”

Lucifer smirks and shrugs, unrepentant. “He has a kink for public exhibition. Who am I to deny him?”

Amenadiel scrubs his face and stalks away.

Outside the club, he watches automobiles drive along the dirty streets, trailing exhaust and noise. Electric lights shine through cloudy windows. Further off, a police siren sounds.

“Nice dress!” someone laughs at him as they pass by.

“It’s a robe,” Amenadiel replies tiredly. It seems like every trip to Earth is accompanied by some cocky human passing ill-informed judgement on his holy vestments. He misses the days when robes were commonplace. He misses the days when humans were few and far between. In the thick of this smog, Amenadiel has trouble remembering what the Garden smelled like.

A few minutes later, Lucifer exits the club and joins him. He lights a fresh cigarette and inhales around a smug smile.

For a moment, Amenadiel regards him closely. Amenadiel looks at Lucifer and tries to see, behind the smoke and suit and swagger, the archangel that had once served God and Goddess at Amenadiel’s side, who had lit the stars and sung praises in the choir with the rest of them. 

Lucifer’s eyebrows twitch as the silence stretches. His dark, dark eyes meet Amenadiel’s, searching.

“Brother?” Lucifer queries.

_Brother. _He was, once. Is he still? The word, wrapped around the newest accent Lucifer has decided to try, sounds strange to Amenadiel.

“Amenadiel?” Lucifer tries again. A little concern has entered his voice, some of the smile slipping away. 

Amenadiel shakes himself free of these thoughts. The Devil is Amenadiel’s task - he is not, and _should_ not, be anything more.

~*~

The occasions that follow are simpler. Sex and sex and more sex. Amenadiel is resigned to his unending fate of seeing Lucifer naked and aroused. Once, notably, he walks in on Lucifer suspended horizontally from the ceiling, black straps wrapped around his back and thighs and arms. The Devil is gagged and blindfolded and exposed - blithely unaware of Amenadiel’s arrival. The leather-clad woman with him, frozen as she circles the room, is carrying what looks like a clamp.

Amenadiel goes outside without waiting to be asked.

~*~

He tracks Lucifer down at a party. For a pleasant change, both Lucifer and the humans around him are fully dressed. There’s a rigid tension in Lucifer’s shoulders that Amenadiel doesn’t think his arrival caused.

He looks around at the assemblage, expecting priests or clergymen – nothing seems to irritate Lucifer quite as deeply – but that isn’t the case. The men in their suits mingle and smile and carry themselves with power and confidence. Some wear arm bands or military medals. Most are regarding the paintings hung along the walls. An art show, perhaps?

“Ah, brother, what a perfect opportunity,” Lucifer says, his smile sharp and doing nothing to hide the anger simmering beneath his surface.

Lucifer steps up to the closest painting and takes it off the wall. He takes the next one down, and the next, and the next.

“What are you doing?” Amenadiel asks. This isn’t Lucifer’s normal sticky-fingered sampling of human paraphernalia. It seems to Amenadiel that Lucifer isn’t even looking at the paintings before he snatches them off the walls. 

“Amenadiel, that wall over there – take them down.”

“I – what? Why?”

Lucifer doesn’t seem to hear him. The stack of paintings under his arm has grown too large for him to carry. He shoves a plate of hors d’oeuvres off a nearby table (the tray hovers to the side, waiting for time to resume to clatter to the ground) and drops the paintings there. He returns to the wall and starts pulling more off.

“Lucifer -” Amenadiel starts, but Lucifer interrupts him.

“Do you know what they’re doing?” the Devil demands. There’s a red glow in his eyes when he turns to Amenadiel. He adds his new armful of paintings to the stack on the table and goes back to collect more.

Amenadiel glances around at the humans.

“Partying?” He guesses.

Lucifer sniffs.

“Partying. Yes. It’s a _celebration_,” he sneers. “Quite an accomplishment, what they’ve done.”

Lucifer pauses before one of the men, captured in the middle of a eating some sort of pastry. 

Amenadiel startles as Lucifer rears back and kicks the man in the crotch, _hard_. 

“Lucifer!” Amenadiel yelps, too surprised to scold. Lucifer snaps his glare at Amenadiel.

“Are you really not paying attention to _any_ of it? Hasn’t it seemed that Heaven’s traffic has grown a bit, these days? Hell’s certainly has.” Lucifer yanks a painting down so harshly that the wire holding it on the wall tears off the frame.

Amenadiel doesn’t spend much time near the gates. He wouldn’t know.

The stack of paintings on the table is too high for Lucifer to add his next armful to the top of it. He puts them on the floor next to the table instead. The pile is already so unwieldy that Amenadiel doesn’t know how Lucifer plans to take it all back in one trip.

“Amenadiel, grab those paintings,” Lucifer orders. 

“You can’t carry all of this, Luci.”

The Devil bares his teeth at Amenadiel, but he slows in his mad dash to steal the paintings and actual _looks_ at the spilling sprawl of artwork. His steps slow to a stop.

“I made a deal. They don’t get to keep these things they’ve killed to steal. Amenadiel, _help me_.”

Amenadiel is taken aback by the request. He can’t remember Lucifer having _ever_ asked for help before. 

Lucifer exhales sharply, taking Amenadiel’s stunned silence for a negation. He carts up an armful of the paintings and whips open his wings. In a harsh downward stroke, Lucifer flies to Hell.

Amenadiel stares at the spot Lucifer had occupied, and the stack of paintings, indecisive on what to do next, when Lucifer comes back up.

Taking advantage of the suspension of time, the archangel grabs a second armful and takes those below as well. 

When Lucifer reappears the third time, Amenadiel grips Lucifer by the shoulder, making him stop. The archangel’s feathers bristle and his wings rise, almost knocking Amenadiel’s hand away.

“If you won’t assist, then get out of the way, Amenadiel. I’ll be done here soon.”

Amenadiel withdrew his hand.

“Are you taking all of the paintings, or is it just certain ones?” Amenadiel asks.

Lucifer fully stops, then, and gives Amenadiel his attention. His eyes rake Amenadiel up and down, looking for falsehood that Amenadiel doesn’t offer. Some of the furious tension bleeds out of him.

“Everything in this wing of the building,” Lucifer says, gesturing to encompass the walls around them, mostly bare at this point. His voice is softer, tinged with wariness but not nearly as angry. “It’s what they took from their latest museum looting. Or some of it, at any rate.”

Amenadiel nods, frowning, and starts taking paintings down. He and Lucifer work quietly for several minutes. There’s still a stressed, wrathful set to Lucifer’s shoulders, and more than once Amenadiel catches sight of him kicking shins and pinching flesh as he passes by the humans, leaving them with painful injuries to enjoy as soon as Amenadiel releases time.

Amenadiel finds it unsettling. This level of emotion from Lucifer – it might mean he’s making connections with people again. It’s dangerous ground, and when the walls are bared, Amenadiel scoops up artwork without complaint. A bit of blatant theft to get Lucifer back to Hell more quickly is a bargain he’s happy to make.

~*~

Amenadiel walks through the Silver City and meanders his way to the gates. Uriel greets the souls as they pour in, and now that Amenadiel is looking at them he agrees that, yes, the numbers _have_ increased significantly. 

He listens to the human souls speaking to each other and comes to understand how they’ve died. People that have been systemically murdered and the soldiers that murdered them both stand together waiting for admittance into Heaven, made placid by the exposure to divinity. It’s slightly sickening, and Amenadiel remembers Lucifer’s words: _Eternity boils down to the simplest factor of guilt, which is nothing at all without the values that they themselves choose to impose on it._

Uriel ushers all inside with a welcome. 

Amenadiel thinks that this _must_ be part of God’s plan.

He makes himself forget Lucifer’s words on _that_ topic as well.

~*~

He feels a roll of power below on Earth and exhales a sigh, glancing up with surprise to realize that Cassiel and Remiel seem to have felt it as well.

“What was that?” Cassiel asks, his low voice tilted upward with curiosity.

“Lucifer,” Amenadiel answers. “You felt that?”

“We did,” Remiel agrees. She flutters her wings uncertainly. “Do you think that means we’re supposed to go with you?”

Amenadiel shakes his head slowly.

“I’m sure Father would have told you if He had new commands. I’ll see to it.”

They agree without much push-back. Lucifer is Amenadiel’s domain and it’s not hard to see that his siblings are eager to leave it that way. 

He feels the vibration of power as soon as he crosses over to Earth, which is surprising. Lately, Lucifer had been more subtle and self-contained. This time, it barely takes Amenadiel half an hour to locate Lucifer.

When he does, though…

The archangel stands in the middle of wide-spread devastation, wings held low at his back. Sour wind blows through the flattened wreckage of what had once been a city. Pieces of buildings lay scattered here and there, ripped apart at the seams, much of it on fire. 

“What did you do?” Amenadiel breathes, struggling to wrap his mind around the scope of the destruction.

Lucifer turns slowly, and his eyes blaze with Hellfire. Power rolls off of him like heat waves. In that moment, Amenadiel sees clearly the angel that defied God and rules Hell, and his throat tightens.

Lucifer curls his massive wings and Amenadiel braces for an attack. 

It doesn’t come.

Lucifer turns downwards and slips through the barrier to Hell.

Amenadiel’s heart beats hard, un-spent adrenaline rushing through his veins. The wind picks up and pushes more of the sour air into his face. It feels _wrong_, like the ground beneath his feet is steeped in poison. The earth smolders and Amenadiel thinks: this must be something Lucifer learned to do in Hell. Not _divine_ wrath, but the opposite.

He returns to the Silver City shaken by what he’s seen. The swell of souls at the gate are a testament of how much destruction the Devil has loosed below. Tens of thousands dead in moments. 

Amenadiel is at a loss.

Should he try to speak to Father? Warn Michael? Go to Hell and talk to Lucifer?

Amenadiel feels stymied and inadequate. Surely God already knows what his rebellious son has done. Surely if Michael will face Lucifer in battle again, he will be prepared. 

And as for going to Hell to talk to Lucifer… Amenadiel cannot even begin to imagine what he could say in the face of this slaughter. 

Humans killing each other indiscriminately is one thing. For an _angel_ to do it is unthinkable. “Forbidden” isn’t a strong enough word.

Amenadiel walks through Heaven without really seeing any of it. He leaves behind those places frequented by human souls and flies up to the emerald mountains. There’s a series of caves tucked away in there that Amenadiel found some time ago and never mentioned to his siblings. It’s as private a place as he can imagine, and he badly needs some solitude to think.

The cave glows with warm bioluminescent lichen, soft and inviting, and he finds a place to sit amongst the moss and the mushrooms. It should be relaxing and isn’t – his thoughts too keyed up and present to give him peace.

In his mind’s eye, Lucifer stands in the destroyed, smoking city, his eyes burning and his wings spread wide. 

What could Amenadiel have done differently? What _should_ he do now? 

He’s too on-edge to sit. He stands and paces, and paces, and paces, the moss spongy under his feet. He opens his wings, and closes them again indecisively. 

He sits again and runs his hands down his face, scrubbing his skin as if it can stimulate thought.

Uriel. He should talk to Uriel, he decides, and rises. 

~*~

The shortest archangel stands at his post by the gates, patient and kind as he speaks to the incoming souls. 

There are a _lot_ of incoming souls.

Amenadiel watches for a while. Uriel spots him and smiles briefly, making eye contact, before returning to offering comfort to the children he was addressing. With a gesture and body language that speaks of explanation, Uriel beckons Sandalphon to take his place. The musical lilt of Sandalphon’s voice washes over the murmur of the crowd, soothing and gentle, and Uriel steps away.

“Amenadiel,” Uriel greets him.

Amenadiel finds his throat oddly tight and doesn’t reply. Uriel nods, uncanny understanding in his features, and starts walking them away from the gates. With a questioning flick of his wings that Amenadiel answers with a nod, he alights. Amenadiel follows him.

He isn’t sure where Uriel is leading him, at first. The flight through Heaven seems directionless, until Amenadiel remembers what section lies behind the mountains.

They land on the soft, dewy grass under the replica of the stars. Constellations that would be familiar to the human souls scatter about; it’s the sky as seen from Earth. 

_A vase with a crack in the lip_, Amenadiel thinks. _A juggler_.

The memory is strangely painful. He pushes it aside.

“Why have you brought me here?” Amenadiel asks, trying to keep the accusation from his voice.

Uriel shrugs, but there’s a knowing glint in his eye.

“You wanted to speak to me, brother. Speak,” Uriel prompts. 

It takes Amenadiel a long moment, looking up at Lucifer’s stars, thinking of the days when they were made, before he gives voice to his fears.

“Would Michael be able to defeat Lucifer a second time?” Amenadiel asks.

Uriel frowns.

“Why wouldn’t he?”

Amenadiel shakes his head. He sweeps an arm behind him, gesturing back towards the gate. 

“You’ve seen what he’s done, Uri. What he’s capable of doing – if he isn’t holding himself back anymore –”

Uriel laughs.

It’s so unexpected that Amenadiel stutters to a stop. He gives his brother an incredulous glare.

“How can you laugh about this?” Amenadiel demands.

“It wasn’t Lucifer’s work that slew those humans, brother,” Uriel says, still chuckling. Amenadiel feels that cold knot of dread within him tighten.

“Then it was Father’s doing. Why would He – Uriel, stop _laughing!_”

“Amenadiel, the humans split an atom. They did this to themselves, knowingly and with intent.”

“Humans did this?” The words are breathy and faint. 

He feels another roll of power below – now that he’s aware of it, he can tell that it’s almost, but not quite, like Lucifer’s - and he meets Uriel’s eyes with too many emotions running through him to name.

“And they’ve just done it again,” Uriel confirms, sighing. “I’d better get back to the gate. I imagine we have quite a crowd waiting. And you’ll need to get down to Earth, brother.”

It’s on the tip of Amenadiel’s tongue to ask _why_ when he feels the ripple of power he knows to be Lucifer, almost hidden in the aftershocks of what was apparently man-made devastation.

Uriel departs, leaving him in the quiet darkness of the star field. 

Amenadiel hesitates longer than he would be proud to admit before he spreads his wings and flies to Earth.

~*~

Another burning, destroyed city; the air thick with sour smoke. Amenadiel struggles to understand that this was done by humans even as he doesn’t doubt Uriel’s words. 

The ground is hot beneath his sandals, even away from the active fires. There are bodies everywhere – some still alive, moaning in pain and terror. Amenadiel grips time tightly to silence them.

Lucifer isn’t easy to find. Power echoes all through the city and, twice, Amenadiel realizes he’s going the wrong way, following the wrong trail.

Lucifer stands amongst burning wreckage. His wings are tucked close to his back and, for his stillness, Amenadiel’s eyes pass over him at first, lost as he is in the shadow of a teetering, half-crushed building. It’s the glow from Lucifer’s feathers that makes Amenadiel realize what he’s looking at.

As if the archangel senses Amenadiel’s eyes on him, Lucifer turns. There’s not enough light to see Lucifer’s expression but his red eyes burn in the darkness.

“Come to send me back below, brother? A bit redundant, surely,” Lucifer says. There’s a casualness in his voice that doesn’t match anything else about him. 

“I’ve spoken to Uriel. Do you know that the humans did this?” Amenadiel asks. After all, if he had thought it was Father, there’s every chance Lucifer did, too. 

Lucifer’s head cocks to the side.

“They’ve been bombing each other for quite a while now.” His fingers extend and curl, indicating the city. “This is just a new instrument in an old song.”

Lucifer stretches out a hand and nudges the unstable building. It shifts with the pressure. Probably, it will fully collapse once Amenadiel releases time.

Lucifer sniffs and walks forward, out of the shadows. 

Ash clings to his clothes and his disheveled hair. Amenadiel doesn’t know if it’s from the ruined city or from Hell. Either feels possible. Lucifer’s eyes burn but his shoulders and wings are slumped with defeat. He looks around at the debris, the bodies, and seems nothing so much as _resigned_.

It’s sobering. A cold wash across Amenadiel’s fear and trepidations. He remembers another devastated city, centuries ago. His accusation that Lucifer had been responsible for that, too.

_“You thought I would create this Hell on Earth? I can think of _nothing_ more grotesque.”_

Lucifer isn’t planning an uprising. Amenadiel is certain of that, unshakably, and for a moment he’s ashamed of his previous assumptions.

The moment passes. The wind blows hot, fetid air against him. Amenadiel remembers his duties.

He looks at Lucifer and he knows the balance holding Lucifer in place has tipped dangerously. The archangel needs his little trips away from Hell in order to stay sane below, and this… this isn’t a break from Hell. This is just Hell in a different location.

Amenadiel searches through his knowledge of human cultures, trying to find an appropriate lure. The apathy on Lucifer’s face is daunting and Amenadiel needs to change it.

“Luci, let’s away from here. Do the humans still create… films?” He thinks that’s the right word. “Why don’t we go see a story?”

Lucifer shifts, debris crunching under his feet. He’s tempted, Amenadiel can tell, and he waits. 

Lucifer’s wings flick with his indecision, and then they stretch wide.

“Very well, brother. Lead the way,” Lucifer says. A bit of curiosity has entered his voice. Good.

Amenadiel remembers where they watched a film previously and hopes that building is still there. If not, the city is probably still standing and he’s sure Lucifer can ferret out entertainment once they’re away from this burning, ruined landscape. 

He spreads his wings and launches towards the sky. It’s nearly half a world away, the place he remembers. There’s sour, tainted air clinging to him from the bomb site, but beat by beat of his wings dipping him in and out of the mortal realm, that feeling vanishes. 

The ocean zips along below them. On the next wingbeat, he spots a pod of whales that have come up for air. Amenadiel checks over his shoulder to see if Lucifer noticed them too. He remembers the last time seeing the creatures, on a trip to collect Lucifer a hundred years ago or so, leaning against the railing of a ship while Lucifer babbled cheerfully about horse-hair toothbrushes, or tinned food, or whatever it was that had caught his attention that time. Amenadiel had mostly tuned Lucifer out, watching the whales swimming away from the ship instead. 

Lucifer follows along behind him. Lucifer is far enough back that it’s difficult to see his face but Amenadiel thinks, from the tilt of his head, that the other angel has seen the whales too. Perhaps they could go to an aquarium if he can’t find a film. Lucifer does have a strange, deep affection for sharks. Amenadiel keeps flying.

The ocean stretches and stretches, but eventually they get close enough to land that they begin seeing ships. Amenadiel slows time as they get closer to civilization. He glances over his shoulder again towards Lucifer, wings pulling him forward. He flies lower, knowing he’ll need to search the streets to find the right place. Lucifer has closed the gap between them a bit, only a dozen meters or so behind him now.

Amenadiel turns back around with only enough time to realize a bridge looms immediately ahead. It’s not enough time to avoid the collision.

He smacks into the stonework at such a velocity that it takes his breath away. He tumbles, scraping along the bridge as he scrabbles to push away or find a hold. 

Above him, he hears Lucifer cackling. Amenadiel kicks away from the stone far enough to get his wings under himself again and flies up to the top of the bridge where Lucifer is standing, bent doubled as he laughs and laughs.

Amenadiel glowers at his brother, which only makes Lucifer laugh harder. The sound is wheezy and rasping, unlike the way Samael laughed in heaven, and Amenadiel thinks it must have been some time since the last time Lucifer had cause to laugh. It soothes the sting to Amenadiel’s pride. He had, after all, wanted Lucifer’s mood to improve. He wouldn’t have chosen to have it at his own expense, but this is not a gift horse he’s foolish enough to look in the mouth.

“That bridge wasn’t there last time,” Amenadiel says, rubbing his cheekbone. The collision hadn’t broken anything, but Amenadiel is sure he’ll wear a bruise for hours. 

Lucifer’s chuckles trickle to a stop, although a grin stays on his face. His listlessness from before has been discarded - he has always been quick to change his moods. Fortunately, this time it works in Amenadiel’s favor.

They find a theatre. The story is animated, and the mechanics involved – flashing images one after the next so quickly that the projected replica seems to show the drawings moving – holds both of their attentions. The content of the story is a bit simple, especially once Amenadiel understands that the deformed humanoid caricature is meant to represent a _mouse_, of all things, but still. Lucifer is enjoying himself. He’s even charmed the woman next to him into sharing her popcorn. 

Amenadiel has a harder time relaxing. It’s not that he thinks Lucifer has forgotten the bombed city, or that Hell awaits when they’re finished here. It’s there in the tension around Lucifer’s eyes, in the line of his shoulders. Amenadiel can see plainly that those truths are still very present in the archangel’s thoughts.

But there’s a way that Lucifer has of dealing with things – of choosing what he will react to – that Amenadiel envies. It’s not a talent he himself has ever picked up, and it’s something that Lucifer has learned to do very well since his exile. 

Time moves faster in Hell, after all, and Lucifer has had so much time to learn. It strikes Amenadiel, with an odd, sharp pain, that Lucifer is older than him. Has _been_ older than him for quite a while. 

Amenadiel may be first-born, but the angel next to him isn’t a younger brother. 

~*~

A decade passes. Two. Three.

Amenadiel had been expecting there to be a pause between Lucifer’s visits this time, but as years stretch, he starts to worry.

“You’re restless, brother,” Sandalphon says. 

They sit side by side at the edge of the golden ocean. They can see ships sparsely dotting the horizon – sea-loving human souls making homes in those places they find the most peace.

Sandalphon cups a handful of the fine, purple sand, almost the same dark shade as his wings, and lets it spill. He has six fingers on each hand, and the sand falls in neat, deliberate lines. Sandalphon picks up more sand, idly drawing more lines with it.

Amenadiel takes a cleansing breath of the sweet, salty air. 

“It’s been quite a while since Lucifer has left Hell,” Amenadiel says. He glances over his shoulder, vaguely in the direction of the gate. “With all the changes happening on Earth, I was sure he’d find it impossible to stay away this long.”

Sandalphon makes a musical, multi-tonal hum. For him, a noncommittal sound.

“There are worse things than silence from the Adversary,” Sandy says. There’s no venom in the words. It’s merely an observation, but the sentiment settles uncomfortably in Amenadiel.

“Perhaps,” Amenadiel says. “But the last time he was this silent for this long...” Amenadiel trails off, shrugging. He’s told none of the angels about what had happened with Lucifer and the suicide’s Hell loop. It’s not something he likes to think about, and he suspects many of his brothers and sisters would have responded to the story with smugness or delight at the Devil’s suffering. Amenadiel doesn’t want to hear it. It is, he knows, much more complicated than some of his siblings would prefer.

Sandalphon continues to draw with the spilling sand.

“Will you go to Hell, then?” the angel asks. “Perhaps you ought to seek council from Father.”

Amenadiel sighs. He glances down at the sand and realizes the lines Sandalphon’s been drawing have been Enochian letters. The word ‘goat-fucker’ stands out in elegant script, and when he meets Sandalphon’s eyes, the other angel smirks at him with pleased mischief. It’s exactly the sort of thing Lucifer would have done, and Amenadiel is so conflicted by that realization that he stares without responding for far too long.

Sandaphon dusts off his fingers and rises to his feet. He offers Amenadiel a hand up, which Amenadiel takes.

“You’re so moody these days, brother,” Sandalphon chides him. “Seek me out when you would play a game next time instead, will you? I shall go see if Remiel is up for some sparring.”

Sandalphon claps Amenadiel on the shoulder and departs without any further word, his rounded, sparrow-like wings carrying him up and away from the beach in moments.

Amenadiel watches his brother fly away and wonders if he had ever been that care-free himself, and when he had stopped. It seems to Amenadiel that he has always had more sense of responsibility than any of his siblings, save perhaps Azrael and Uriel. 

He stretches his wings and lingers, indecisively, for a very long time before he parts the barrier and descends into Hell.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >_< One day, I'll be right about the number of chapters I need. ONE day.
> 
> Also thank you for your patience on this chapter - I went on vacation, which, while lovely, did disrupt the whole writing thing.

Hell’s atmosphere is abrasively hot. The air is thick with ash and stinks of sulfur. The updrafts are unreliable. The wind changes direction unpredictably, and it is a chore to fly through. Amenadiel beats his wings and wonders why in Dad’s name he’s convinced himself to come here, even as he pushes himself forward.

The craggy spire of Lucifer’s throne juts up against the black land, and when he’s close enough to see more clearly, it’s evident that the chair is unoccupied.

Amenadiel’s stomach sinks with apprehension. His eyes drift over the endless rows of loop doors below. Millions upon millions of damned souls with their individually tailored torments – is Lucifer in one of those loops?

He flies to the throne anyway, landing near the base. He can feel eyes on him from the shadows; hears the distorted echo of rocks shifting, voices talking and laughing in the low, rough cadence of Lilim. 

“Mazikeen?” Amenadiel calls. Perhaps the demon can point him in the right direction again, assuming she still lives.

“Perhaps the angel doesn’t know where it is,” an unfamiliar voice whispers behind him. Amenadiel turns but doesn’t see more than a flash of movement in the shadows. 

“It knows, or why would it be asking for Mazikeen?” Another voice answers in the opposite direction. Amenadiel turns again, seeing no one.

Laughter echoes around him, mocking and cruel. With the distortion, Amenadiel cannot pinpoint where the voices are coming from. He spreads his bladed feathers, ready for a fight.

“I’m looking for Lucifer,” Amenadiel says, on the off-chance that it will garner favorable results.

“The king is busy,” the first voice says. 

“Busy _where_?” Amenadiel demands. He’s met with silence and scoffs, unamused. 

He turns his steps towards the Black Palace – a formidable structure that lies not far from the base of the throne. Perhaps Lucifer has gone to that more-accommodating space to speak to some of his demons.

The susurrus of hushed voices follows him but Amenadiel pays them little mind. If they attack, he’ll destroy them. He doesn’t want to stay in Hell any longer than necessary.

The winding path of columnar rocks opens up before the palace. Its black glass walls stretch high, both elegant and intimidating in their designs. The receiving hall is dotted with braziers, their blue flames banked low. The reflections they cast on the ground writhe and twist like suffering human forms.

“Lucifer?” Amenadiel calls. He’s only been inside here a handful of times, dropping Lucifer off when he was too intoxicated to fly or helping him carry some stolen trinket back below. He has never lingered.

Hallways branch off irregularly, as if the palace was grown instead of built. He follows the largest hall – the one that leads to Lucifer’s other, more practical throne. The glittering black walls open into a vast space, and Amenadiel exhales with heavy disappointment at finding this space Devil-free as well.

Amenadiel is at a loss.

He flicks his wings indecisively, wondering if he should just fly back home, forget this endeavor, _leave_. He wants to. Hell presses against his awareness, its miasma of despair inescapable, and Amenadiel _wants to leave_.

He squares his shoulders and tucks his wings close to his back. He is Amenadiel, first-born, God’s chosen warrior, and he will not depart until he has spoken to Lucifer.

He leaves the throne room and picks a path at random. _Somewhere_ in here, he knows that Lucifer keeps his collection of human paraphernalia. For the lack of other options, Amenadiel decides to seek it out. Perhaps Lucifer is amongst his possessions.

The skitter and snuffle of the lower-tier demons following him falls away the deeper Amenadiel moves into the palace. He can still feel eyes on his back and is sure he isn’t alone. 

The palace winds and wends. The floor is sometimes smooth; sometimes gnarled like sinuous tree roots. The ceiling slopes and expands irregularly. It’s like walking through the hollowed arteries and organs of a massive beast. The blue firelight bounces off the black glass walls, twisting the shapes and shadows. Amenadiel concentrates carefully on the path he takes so that he can retrace his steps later. He does not want to get lost in here.

He comes to another forking hallway. The path to the right trails down at an incline; the ceiling low enough that Amenadiel will have to stoop a little. The left path takes a sharp right-angled turn into darkness a few meters down.

Amenadiel goes left. He can’t imagine Lucifer willingly bowing his head and dismisses the path with the low ceiling.

Around the bend in the path, there are no more lit braziers. The blackness is nearly total, but he can see the glimmer of lights a considerable length ahead.

Amenadiel hears the distorted echo of his footfalls as he walks forward, and he thinks the hallway has widened into a vast, open space around him.

Something shifts in that space – he hears a rasp of large, slow movements; a sound like spines or scales on rock. Something lows quietly, the sound somewhere between ‘bovine’ and ‘predator.’ It makes the hairs on the back of Amenadiel’s neck stand. He makes his footfalls as inaudible as he can and stretches his senses, trying to keep track of the… _whatever_ it is… hiding in the darkness. 

The brazier ahead starts opening a pool of light on the ground before him. There are long, runneled grooves on the floor, like claw marks. Amenadiel feels wind move with wet heat, like the exhalation of an immense animal; hears snuffling behind him, off to his left. Wings still held close to his back, he spreads his bladed primaries and clenches his fists.

Amenadiel’s shoulders don’t relax until he steps into the lit hallway at the end of the chamber. Unspent adrenaline makes his muscles twitch unpleasantly as he keeps moving forward.

The path rounds another corner, and Amenadiel grunts with annoyance at finding himself back in the front hall. The hallway towards the throne lies off to his right. He’s somehow managed to make a wide circle of the palace interior.

Amenadiel sighs, annoyed, and considers the various archways and which path to try next, but stops, tilting his head to listen. He thinks he heard Lucifer’s voice back towards the entrance.

“Luci?” he calls, walking back through the palace and outside into the fall of ash again.

The demons that were following him before loiter near the bottom of the stairs, grinning up at him with chipped and yellowed teeth. Amenadiel scans the area and doesn’t see Lucifer. His patience is wearing thin. He frowns, and one of the demons laughs at him, making herself a target for his ire.

In a flash, Amenadiel snaps his wings, shooting through the space separating them. He grabs the demon by her throat, catching her wrist and squeezing until she drops her blade.

Her compatriots scatter, howling and chortling at her misfortune.

The demon spits at him, scrabbling and yowling like an angry cat, and Amenadiel tightens his grip on her throat until she falls _mostly _silent, still gurgling and growling at him.

“Where,” Amenadiel says, “Is Lucifer?”

The demon jabs her hand out to the side, pointing towards the rows upon rows of loop doors. Amenadiel clenches his teeth and lifts the demon off the ground. Her free hand clutches at his wrist, trying to take pressure off her neck. 

“Do you know which door?”

The demon nods frantically against his grip.

“I’m going to set you down, and you’re going to show me where. And if you run… well. I wouldn’t recommend running. Do you understand?”

More frantic nodding.

Amenadiel drops the demon into the ash. She chokes and coughs and wheezes, catching her breath.

“Now!” Amenadiel barks, not wanting her to recover long enough to start getting ideas.

The demon scrambles up, her breath still sawing and uneven, and lurches the rest of the way down the stairs like a drunk.

Amenadiel follows her, keeping his wings high and rounded, intimidating and foreboding. He feels the ash fall against his feathers and grimaces. 

The demon darts from row to row, leading deeper into the labyrinth. Amenadiel follows. Hell is unimaginably vast but he’s hopeful that Lucifer is nearby. If the archangel were visiting a door miles upon miles away, Amenadiel is doubtful this low level demon would know about it.

Unless Lucifer regularly visits a specific door.

He thinks of that suicide hell loop, and dismisses it. 

He thinks of Mother, somewhere in this horrible place. He remembers how cold and blank Lucifer had been to her existence here, and his stomach tightens.

It’s less than twenty minutes later that the demon skids to a stop in front of a door. It isn’t the suicide’s door; isn’t their Mother’s. It’s just a door, much like any of the ones next to it, and some of Amenadiel’s tension dissipates.

“He’s here,” the demon says, jutting her jaw at the door. “We’re _done_ now,” she snarls at him, spinning on her heel and sprinting away.

Amenadiel watches her go for a long moment, watching the ash puff and resettle in her retreating footsteps.

The door before him seems to shiver, and Amenadiel can feel that _pressure_ of Lucifer’s power. The archangel is here.

Amenadiel takes a breath, tasting the ash and sulfur in the air, and opens the door.

It’s a barn. There’s muted sunlight outside; the smell of animals and hay. The wooden walls arch up high into lofts.

A man hangs by his wrists from a rope tied to a ceiling beam, screaming. 

Lucifer stands before the man, his hands busy doing _something_ to the man’s chest that considerably ratchets up the intensity of the screams. Lucifer is wearing the dark, scaled leather favored by the demons, and it’s striking, how much the outfit emphasizes the gleeful menace that pours off of him. 

A wet, slopping sound fills the barn. Coils of intestine land by Lucifer’s boots, and the reek of viscera blossoms. Amenadiel gags.

Lucifer turns at the sound, eyebrows raised curiously.

“Brother!” Lucifer says cheerfully.

There’s blood… _everywhere_… on his person. Lucifer’s face is splattered with it. His hands are still buried up to the elbow in the man’s chest cavity, and make a horrible slick sound as he withdraws them. 

Lucifer waves his arms out to the side, shaking blood off of his hands.

The man behind him starts begging.

“Please stop, please _stop_, please, I’ll give you anything, _anything_, please! Please!”

Lucifer stoops, picks up a loop of spilled intestines, and shoves it into the man’s mouth, muffling his cries. 

“Better,” Lucifer says, turning back to Amenadiel as though nothing of significance had happened at all.

Amenadiel feels nausea claw up his throat. 

Lucifer gives him a scrutinizing look.

“What brings you here, Amenadiel?” Lucifer asks. He steps off to the side, retrieving a horse blanket from where it’s folded against the stable and wipes his hands.

The man’s hollowed abdomen is gruesome without Lucifer’s body hiding most of the view. The man twitches and moans like a desperate animal. Beneath the gore, his eyes are missing. The tip of his nose. Most of his fingers. The violent details bombard Amenadiel and he turns away.

Lucifer picks up a serrated knife, perhaps the length of his forearm, and gestures at Amenadiel with it.

“Well, brother, spit it out,” Lucifer prompts. “I’m a bit busy.”

Amenadiel’s tongue feels stuck to the roof of his mouth.

Lucifer rolls his eyes and approaches the man again. He grips the edge of the wound opening his stomach and pulls the skin taut.

“If dear old Dad sent you, you can tell him that Hell keeps growing,” Lucifer says, sawing and pulling, sawing and pulling, and the _sound_ the man makes around his mouthful, as piece after piece is discarded, is inhuman. “I’ve been up to my eyeballs in eyeballs, if you get my meaning,” He says cheekily.

Amenadiel can see the gleam of the man’s hipbones through the blood, now.

“Good,” Amenadiel stutters, barely following what Lucifer is saying.

Lucifer frowns at him over his shoulder. He glances between the man and Amenadiel, brow creasing.

“Oh,” Lucifer says. He turns the blade in his hand and offers the handle to Amenadiel. “Did you want to partake? This one still has quite a lot of fight left in him, don’t you?” Lucifer says to the man, bringing up his other gore-splattered hand to stroke the man’s jaw. “He’s proving a bit of a tough nut to crack, but I’m sure we’ll get to the bottom of that guilt soon.” He pats the man’s cheek in a way that’s almost playful.

Lucifer glances back at Amenadiel, and at Amenadiel’s lack of response, the hand offering the knife dips.

“Suit yourself, brother,” Lucifer says with a shrug, reading Amenadiel’s ‘_no’ _clearly, even though he’d said nothing. Lucifer twirls the blade with casual competence, slipping the handle back into his grip.

For a beat, they merely regard each other, and then Lucifer scoffs, as if annoyed with Amenadiel’s intrusion.

“Well, if you’ve nothing else, I’m a bit busy,” Lucifer says, punctuating the statement by driving the blade into the man’s thigh. The man shrieks around his improvised gag, but Lucifer doesn’t react at all, treating the sound as mere background noise. 

Amenadiel turns and leaves.

He feels sick.

He has known that Lucifer inflicts punishment on the damned souls. He has _known_ that, but seeing it – seeing how casually Lucifer approaches it – how _unbothered_ the Devil is by the suffering he causes –

It sits in Amenadiel’s chest like a weight.

“Oh ho ho, is the angel leaving?” someone jeers at him from the shadows once he makes his way back outside. Demons lurking to see what he’s doing, what their king is doing, as eager to inflict torture as Lucifer. “So soon? What’s wrong, angel - scared of having fun?”

Amenadiel flares his wings wide, kicking up ash in a billowing cloud as he launches himself into the air. He hears mocking laughter smothered in coughing until his wingbeats take him high enough to cross the barrier to Earth.

He lands on a beach somewhere where the breeze is warm even at night. It’s dark, and the air is thick with saltwater mist, but everything is so much _cleaner_ than Hell that he breathes deeply, purging his lungs. The darkness here is gentle, lit by the night sky. 

Amenadiel looks at Lucifer’s stars and _feels_ the distance – not just from this planet to the faraway galaxies where their lights burn, but the distance between now and the moment they were made. Once upon a time, Samael lit the stars, scattering lights like jewels across the darkness.

Grief has nipped at Amenadiel’s heels for eons. Always, he has pushed it away, convincing himself that there was nothing he should be grieving for; that Samael had never been who Amenadiel had thought he was, that it was a betrayal to God to mourn his traitorous brother.

Now, Amenadiel sits on a dark beach, listening to waves smashing against the shore, and he wonders if those little lies he told himself were true all along.

~*~

Amenadiel has a hard time forgetting the sight of Lucifer’s blood-splattered face.

He has chosen a quiet, contemplative spot in a field of chaff flowers. Their drooping green-and-purple heads are bright against the backdrop of clouds above. He’s plucked one off and idly thumbs the soft spines while he thinks.

Laid flat like this, Amenadiel can almost feel the shift and swell of Heaven’s fundament. He knows it expands more and more every day, just as Hell does. Amenadiel closes his eyes and soaks in the heat of a cheerful white sun. It’s a kinder replica of the one seen from Earth.

Amenadiel thinks about Lucifer.

Lucifer’s responsibility is to rule Hell. Should it _matter_ how he does it? Should Amenadiel really be bothered by _how_ Lucifer does his duty, so long as he does it at all?

He shouldn’t be. He knows that. It is God’s will that Lucifer rules Hell. God must have known before He ever cast Samael down that this would be the result.

Amenadiel remembers the days leading up to the rebellion. He turns it over in his head, again and again, understanding that this darkness has always been part of his brother. The Devil may have lit the stars and, for a time, served God at Amenadiel’s side, but he was never truly _good._

Amenadiel hears wingbeats somewhere nearby but doesn’t bother opening his eyes.

“Amenadiel,” Sandalphon greets him in his musical, multi-tonal voice.

“Sandy,” Amenadiel responds. At a nudge from the archangel’s foot, Amenadiel grunts and shifts to the side, allowing his brother room to sit. Amenadiel sighs and opens his eyes again, watching Sandalphon fold his long, long legs beneath him.

“Uriel and Gabriel are making bets,” Sandy says, voice upticked with mischief. 

“Oh?” Amenadiel says. He can tell his brother is trying to draw him out and swallows his irritation. Amenadiel is in no mood for games.

“They are trying to decided how long until Samael rises to Earth again.”

“Lucifer,” Amenadiel corrects sharply.

“Yes,” Sandalphon says, waving a hand. “Him. You know him best, Amenadiel, first-born. What say you?”

“I say that Lucifer can stay in the pit until the end of days,” Amenadiel snaps. 

Sandalphon blinks at Amenadiel owlishly.

Amenadiel feels a ripple of power below, and he clenches his fists.

“Ohh,” Sandalphon says, playful disappointment washing across his features as Amenadiel glowers down at Earth. “That’s him, isn’t it? Drat. That means Uriel has won. How _does_ he always win?”

Amenadiel pushes himself to his feet and doesn’t bother to reply.

~*~

Amenadiel flies through city after city, looking for his charge. A lot has changed on Earth since the last time he visited the human civilizations. It’s hard not to notice, even as he pays the mortals and their new inventions little attention.

Lucifer’s presence is muted; contained. Amenadiel can feel the wake of power the archangel leaves behind but it takes a couple of days to locate the source. 

He finds Lucifer in some sort of dance hall full of strobing lights and far-too-loud music. Amenadiel muffles the noise by tightening his grip on time as soon as he lands. The Devil is bent over a table, snorting a long line of white powder and doesn’t seem to notice the change at first. He surfaces, tilting his head back and rubbing his nose, exhaling his pleasure. 

“Ah, brother!” Lucifer calls, seeming to realize that Amenadiel has slowed the mortal world around them. The woman pressed against Lucifer’s side has her hand in Lucifer’s pants. Amenadiel glances aside while Lucifer extricates himself and rises.

The suit Lucifer is wearing is impractically white, save for the wide, black collar of the shirt mostly hidden by his vest. His hair is slicked back and eyes are darkly lined with kohl. He seems to vibrate where he stands; overflowing with energy.

“Do you know what they’ve done?” Lucifer laughs. “It’s bloody brilliant! They’ve gone to the moon!”

Amenadiel wonders how high Lucifer is. 

The archangel bounces on his feet, his excitement a palpable thing. His smile is bright. Amenadiel can’t help but wonder if Lucifer came to Earth immediately after torturing someone. The image of Lucifer in that barn plays in Amenadiel’s head, and he stares at Lucifer for long enough that Lucifer’s smile starts to falter. 

He regains it quickly, snatching up the remaining baggie of powder and tucking it into an inner pocket of his jacket.

“I simply _must _speak to John again before I go back, brother. He’s got a whole briefcase full of the stuff.” Lucifer pats his pocket. “Sobriety is just so _tedious_ in Hell, you know?”

Lucifer scans the crowd. 

“Oh good, he’s not left yet. Brother, give us a moment, yes?” He shoots a grin at Amenadiel and starts wending his way through the humans around them without waiting for Amenadiel to reply.

Amenadiel scowls after the archangel and crosses his arms, irritation and disgust making the room feel claustrophobic. Lucifer was behaving _exactly _as he always had. He wasn’t any different at all. And why should he be? Nothing had changed. What Amenadiel had seen in Hell was what Lucifer had always been.

“Amenadiel!” Lucifer calls indignantly, not _quite _an order for Amenadiel to release time, but so close to it that anger starts to warm Amenadiel’s blood.

“I will not,” Amenadiel bites out, “Enable this further. Enough cavorting, Lucifer. You’ve had your fill – now go back to Hell where you belong.”

Lucifer makes a rude noise.

“Amenadiel, don’t be like that. All I’m asking –”

“I don’t care, Luci. God has sent me to see you back to the infernal realm. Would you rather take it up with Him?”

A small twitch in the corner of Lucifer’s eye. Lucifer drops his hands. He sniffs, smiling at Amenadiel as if unbothered, but it’s a thin mask.

“Very well,” Lucifer says, shrugging as if it’s all the same to him one way or the other. He steps to the side of the dance floor and opens his wings. When he looks back at Amenadiel, the Devil’s eyes glitter. “Until next time, then,” Lucifer says, and takes himself below. Amenadiel follows him to make sure, but Lucifer doesn’t even glance back.

~*~

Time, as it has a habit of doing, passes. 

The Silver City grows. Amenadiel wanders through one of the actual _cities_ in Heaven – places grown from the human souls that missed the noise and clutter of living in such proximity to each other. The architecture sways and changes depending on which way you looked at it – speaking of souls remembering loved features of Israel, England, Malaysia… Amenadiel can spot a dozen different written languages at a glance.

The humans part for him with respect and reverence, glancing at his wings with an understanding of the divinity they represent. Amenadiel tucks them out of sight after a few blocks and settles by a fountain, watching the humans meander and converse. There’s none of the _urgency_ to their movements here that Amenadiel has seen on Earth. Here, they are at peace and know comfort. There’s no hunger, no frantic scurry towards their jobs, no debts to pay or suffering to bear. For all the complexity of sounds and movement around him, everything is _simple_.

He wonders what Lucifer would say if he could, by some trickery or error, ever come to see it. Certainly, nothing kind. 

_It isn’t in Lucifer’s nature to be content_, Uriel had said, eons ago it felt like. Amenadiel knows Uriel is right, and he understands that Samael’s rebellion had always been inevitable. 

Amenadiel sighs and dips his fingers into the fountain. The water is clean and cool, sparkling in the light.

Children rush by, giggling and chasing each other, and one of the boys trips. Heaven softens the ground to catch him and bounces him back up to his feet, barely interrupting the game they were playing. Amenadiel watches them until they round a corner and vanish from his sight.

Amenadiel sees a woman seated by a stone well. Her red, red hair is a shock of color against the gray wall behind her. For a moment, she glances up and meets Amenadiel’s eyes, and he tries to place where he’s seen her before.

**_Amenadiel_**, God calls, and Amenadiel stiffens. 

He hasn’t heard God’s voice since he was commanded to mark Cain. It’s been thousands upon _thousands _of years, and Amenadiel’s heart clenches with a complex tangle of joy and fear and apprehension. 

“Father,” Amenadiel breathes. His hands are shaking slightly. “How may I serve?”

** _A devout soul prays for a child. Take from her her infertility. _ **

Amenadiel feels knowledge bloom in his mind. God has provided him with the woman’s location, her face, and the blessing that he will need to lay upon her.

“Yes, Father,” Amenadiel says. He feels a flicker of disappointment at the command, and he pauses, just for a moment, to contemplate asking God about Lucifer.

Amenadiel smothers the thought, irritated with himself for the lapse, and spreads his wings. 

~*~

The woman resides in the same city that Lucifer had last visited. Amenadiel wonders if there’s a connection – if this is why _he _was chosen for this privilege, or if this woman’s infertility is some consequence of Lucifer’s actions that God seeks to correct. Amenadiel tries not to be curious. He doubts God will ever tell him. He concentrates, instead, on the task itself.

Amenadiel knows the woman’s face. He knows where she’ll be. He slows time as he flies lower and considers the best way to approach this. 

He must speak with her, which means he can’t just swoop in and impart God’s gift physically. He’ll need to actually interact with her, which means he’ll need to blend in with the humans around him.

Amenadiel regards the men that populate the city as he flies through it. It’s annoying how diverse the styles are these days, but as he steps into a store with clothes on display, he’s confident he can select something appropriate.

Once he’s dressed, Amenadiel takes his shed holy garments to a rooftop and tucks them out of sight. 

Amenadiel flies to the street and, yes, there she is, as expected. Her hair spills over her bare shoulders; the dress she wears is red and short and, even to Amenadiel’s inexperienced eye, it looks faded and cheap. The purse hanging off her shoulder is scuffed, and as Amenadiel considers her, an idea strikes him.

He dips his fingers into her purse and pulls out her wallet – a bulky thing with too many pockets, as frayed as the purse - then steps back a few yards behind her and releases time.

“Miss!” Amenadiel calls. “Miss, I believe you’ve dropped this.”

The woman turns and her eyes pop open in surprise at the wallet Amenadiel holds out.

“Oh my god,” she says, frantically patting her purse as she steps closer to him, as if trying to find whatever hole it _must_ have slipped through. “Oh, thank you!” she says, reaching her other hand towards Amenadiel. He gives her the wallet and she takes it gratefully. She clutches it tightly for a moment, and then her eyes well with tears.

Amenadiel grunts with the impact as she suddenly hugs him tightly.

“Oh my god, I’d’ve been so _screwed_ if I lost this,” she breaths against his neck. Amenadiel starts to bring his hand up towards her stomach, but she laughs her relief as she pulls back from him before he can impart the blessing. She shakes her head, beaming at Amenadiel.

“_Thank_ you,” she says again, and Amenadiel smiles back at her, somewhat vexed at the lost opportunity but burying it under a friendly façade.

“You’re welcome,” he says.

She blows her bangs aside, then pushes them back with her fingers. She gives Amenadiel a lingering look.

“Can I buy you a coffee?” she offers, tilting her head towards the restaurant beside them. “I’d love to thank you properly.”

Amenadiel smiles wider, seeing God’s hand at work.

“Coffee sounds great.”

She introduces herself as ‘Penelope’ once they’re seated and coffees have been ordered. The wallet contained a check for, as she put it, her ‘breakout role.’

“This isn’t another dumb soap commercial,” she tells him after a rambling description of aliens and harems and laser guns. She leans close and blushes with pride. “It’s the real deal!”

“Your husband must be thrilled,” Amenadiel says, nodding at the ring on her finger.

“Oh, my John is so supportive. What about you? You have a special someone at home?”

Amenadiel grins, seeing a way towards his goal.

“I do. We’re saving for a Spring wedding,” he says. The lies trip off his tongue easily, put together from bits and pieces of conversations overheard in Heaven. Amenadiel pretends to sigh wistfully.

“We’re trying for a baby,” he says. “But no luck so far.”

Penelope reaches across the table and takes his hand in hers.

“John and I are trying, too,” she says. “It’s hard, I know. Sometimes, you’ve just got to pray.”

Amenadiel smiles at her.

“A woman of faith,” Amenadiel says. “How wonderful. May I share a prayer with you? Something from the old country. It’s supposed to help us conceive.” He shrugs. “My wife is a firm believer and I can’t imagine it’d hurt.”

“Oh,” Penelope blinks at him. “Well sure, why not?” She takes her hands back and folds them in a prayer position. Amenadiel folds his hands too.

He speaks the blessing, the Enochian syllables rolling off his tongue, and while Penelope’s eyebrows scrunch in confusion, he seizes time, stands, and places his hand on her stomach.

Amenadiel feels the imparted power unfurl through her body, and when he sits back down and resumes time, the smile he gives her is genuine.

Penelope mumbles a mangled version of what he’d said, and he laughs good-naturedly.

“Where did you say your wife was from?” she laughs.

“Well, look at you two!” someone says, interrupting before Amenadiel can think of a plausible reply. The woman is wearing the same striped shirt as their waitress and holds up some sort of device. “Not one thing or the other, are you?” She laughs good-naturedly. “Smile!” 

Penelope turns toward her and smiles, and Amenadiel, confused by this intrusion but still buoyed by his success, does the same.

A bright light flashes from the device and the woman grins at them, plucking the little card that the machine had spat out and shaking it while she walked away. 

“What was that about?” Amenadiel asks Penelope.

Penelope laughs into her hand.

“It’s… she thought we were an interracial couple,” she explains, waggling a finger between them. She shakes her head. “Some people are a _bit slow_ on the learning curve, even here in LA.”

“Ah,” Amenadiel says, although he doesn’t really understand. He shakes his head.

“Well, Adam, this was lovely,” she says. She takes out her rescued wallet and drops a couple of dollars on the table. She waggles the wallet at him. “Seriously, thank you. I’ve been in LA long enough to know that I’m very lucky you didn’t just take it. You’re one of the good ones. I’ll see you around, yeah?”

Amenadiel lifts his coffee cup at her in acknowledgement, smiling and nodding in lieu of a goodbye. Penelope walks away, unaware of the change within her. 

Amenadiel finishes his drink, pleased with a job done well.

He hopes God will ask to have more mortals blessed. It’s _certainly_ a nice change from dealing with Lucifer.

~*~

Amenadiel is in one of the great libraries when he feels the displacement of power below on Earth. He tucks the book back into place with a small grunt of annoyance at the interruption. He makes a mental note of the page number so he can pick up where he left off once he’s seen Lucifer back to Hell.

He’s surprised to see Uriel outside the library when he exits. Uriel rarely leaves the gates these days.

“Amenadiel,” the archangel says. His gaze is hooded, thoughtful, but he shakes his head, dismissing whatever he’d been about to say. “Good luck,” Uriel says instead.

Amenadiel claps Uriel on the shoulder in passing and spreads his wings.

“It’s only Lucifer,” Amenadiel replies, and flies to Earth. He’ll have to ask Uriel later what that had been about.

He quickly locates Lucifer in the City of Angels, having started his search there on a whim - and that, too, is a surprise. Lucifer rarely visits the same city twice in a row. Amenadiel dismisses the concern, though. It’s been a generation at least since Lucifer last visited Earth. There’s no fear of Lucifer making messy connections with some mortal.

“Off! Off! Off!” Lucifer chants, laughing and clapping with the rest of the horny entourage he’s acquired. 

Amenadiel puts a stop to it, and Lucifer sighs with aggravation.

“How can someone who can _literally_ control time have such atrocious timing?” the Devil complains.

~*~

A mortal pulls a gun on Amenadiel while he waits outside for Lucifer to finish. 

Getting shot is _immensely_ unpleasant. It’s a kick to the chest that steals Amenadiel’s breath, makes his eyes roll back in his head. He hits the ground and for a moment, Amenadiel sees nothing but stars.

He scrabbles his way back with a gasp. His hand flies up to his chest, feeling keenly the absence of the power and weight of his necklace, and anger washes through him.

He gets to his feet and scans the street. He doesn't see the man who shot him. Amenadiel is frustratingly unsure of how long he'd been laid flat, and after he runs down first one street and then another, he growls, frightening a woman passing by with a child in a stroller.

Amenadiel doesn’t apologize to her – too upset to care about her minor inconvenience.

He can’t find the mortal who robbed him.

Amenadiel sighs, already feeling exhausted by the conversation he’s probably about to have, and turns back to the hotel.

Lucifer, far from disentangling himself and preparing to return to Hell, is even more undressed and in bed with the humans when Amenadiel returns.

Amenadiel’s annoyed, but not surprised. He’s even more annoyed with the knowledge that he’ll need to linger on Earth for a least a few more hours while his necklace is retrieved.

Amenadiel slips into clothes that will blend in. (“_Nice dress_,” the mortal had said, laughing, and it irked him still. Amenadiel _missed_ the days when robes were common.)

“Why are there holes in your dress?” Lucifer asks. Amenadiel clenches his teeth.

“It’s a _robe_.”

“Oh, I apologize. Why are there holes in your dress?”

Lucifer is in a playful, mischievous mood, and he seems to be mostly sober, which doesn’t bode well for a smooth trip back to Hell once this matter is finished.

“Look. I don’t trust you to see yourself back to Hell, okay? So I want you to stay here for a few hours and then we’ll go.”

“Ooooh,” Lucifer croons, his delight at this extension of his stay an obvious and annoying thing. “More time in LA? Lucky me!”

Amenadiel gives him a warning glare.

“Stay here, Lucifer.”

“No worries, brother,” Lucifer says, turning to the woman next to him and cupping her breasts. “I have my hands quite full.”

It galls, leaving Lucifer behind. 

Amenadiel reasons that it isn’t a problem. He’d found Lucifer less than half a day since he rose to Earth, after all – a few more hours is still more time than Lucifer usually takes away from Hell. 

It was a human that stole his necklace, and so Amenadiel seeks out human law enforcement to have the matter settled. Unlike Lucifer, Amenadiel _respects_ the separation between the mortal and the divine.

~*~

The police are useless. 

Amenadiel reviews all he said, all he did, in imparting the severity of the theft to the officer taking his statement, and can find nothing wrong with any of it. Surely, the failing is on the human side.

Amenadiel clenches his fists in frustration and paces outside of the hotel that contains Lucifer.

He is not looking forward to this.

Amenadiel takes a deep, deep breath, swallows his pride, and walks inside. 

The party has dwindled down in the hour or so it took Amenadiel to locate and speak to the police. Humans lay in post-coital satiation in various states of undress. Lucifer is asleep on the bed, and Amenadiel rolls his eyes. Lucifer is only sleeping now, he knows, because he thinks Amenadiel is about to take him back to Hell. It’s another way of dragging his feet and being an inconvenience, and as Amenadiel settles his weight on the edge of the mattress, the request he’ll need to make burns in his gut.

But Lucifer knows the mortal world. He knows it far better than Amenadiel. Amenadiel knows that.

He can’t leave his necklace on Earth. It is divine – a gift from Father – and it’s unthinkable that it should stay in mortal hands.

“Luci,” he says, but the archangel sleeps on. “Luci. _Lucifer._”

Lucifer groans.

“If only angels came with a snooze button,” he complains. Amenadiel doesn’t know what a snooze button is, but he can hear the petulance in Lucifer’s tone and guess the meaning. “What?” Lucifer bites, the ‘t’ a sharp noise between his teeth. “What is it, brother?”

Amenadiel briefly closes his eyes. He swallows.

_Oh, _but he does not want to do this.

“A human shot me and stole my necklace,” he says.

“Well,” Lucifer smiles at him. “So much for not exposing humanity to our divinity.”

Amenadiel grits his teeth. It’s the mockery he has been expecting, and were it any less important, he would remind Lucifer of his place.

“That’s why I need to get it back, alright? Now, I tried to utilize human law enforcement, but it failed. So.” Amenadiel takes a breath. Beside him, Lucifer pours himself a drink, enjoying Amenadiel’s discomfort. “I need _your _help, Luci.”

The Devil stills. 

And then he laughs, his grin bright and smug when he turns to Amenadiel.

“Oh, _do _you now?”

“Well, you’ve always been… crafty,” Amenadiel says, hoping to flatter Lucifer into assisting without dragging out the humiliation of having to ask at all. “Smart.”

“Craft_ier._ Smart_er _than you. And more handsome. Go on.”

Amenadiel could cheerfully throttle him.

“And because you spend more time with humanity. You may understand them better than I do.”

_Especially the immoral sort of deviants that would steal a holy necklace_, he doesn’t add.

“Well, most of that time I _was_ naked,” Lucifer says around a mouthful of the strawberry he’d plucked from his pants. “But true nonetheless.”

“Luci, are you gonna help me or not?” Amenadiel snaps, patience wearing thin.

Lucifer smirks at him. The Devil gives him a smug, assessing glance, and Amenadiel knows he’s going to ask for more time on Earth in repayment for this. Probably as much as a day, given how Amenadiel had cut his last visit to Earth short. 

“Okay. But. You have to follow me,” Lucifer says. 

Amenadiel suppresses his annoyance. Even aside from the delay in getting the Devil back to Hell, Lucifer is going to lord this over him. Amenadiel just knows it. Is _this_ why Uriel had wished him luck? Had he somehow forecasted Amenadiel’s upcoming misfortune? He can just imagine the teasing he’ll receive when he returns to Heaven.

“I'll follow your lead,” Amenadiel agrees.

“Lovely. Well then. First things first, let’s get you in something a little _less_ ridiculous,” Lucifer drawls, distastefully eyeing the clothes Amenadiel is wearing. “Here, now, that one was wearing something half-decent and he’s about your size,” Lucifer points at the couch where a young, naked man is sleeping. “Why don’t you find his clothes while I go take a shower.”

“Luci, the longer that necklace is in human hands –”

“Oh, keep your shirt on – or rather, don’t, as the situation dictates. I said I’d help you and I will. But I’ll not be seen with you looking like _that_. I may be rich and you may be single, but let’s not cross that incest line, yes?”

“_What_?” Amenadiel says, appalled, but Lucifer has already sauntered out of the room. 

Amenadiel suppresses a groan and looks up towards Heaven. His irritation at Lucifer, at humans, at the _specific_ human that had shot him and robbed him, at this messy situation he has found himself in... Amenadiel pulls his shirt off so quickly that he hears a seam tear. The sleeveless t-shirt beneath it follows, and he sees, now, the print on the front – If You’re Rich, I’m Single – and his confusion at its meaning makes him even more annoyed.

In the shower, he can hear Lucifer singing, as pleased with this turn of events as a cat finding an injured canary. Amenadiel wanders through the apartment, scouring the floor, the backs of chairs, sometimes even lifting slack and sated limbs to rifle through the discarded garments. One of the women rouses, stretching and moaning with relaxed pleasure, and she blinks up at Amenadiel with lazy surprise.

“Who are you, then?” she mumbles.

“Lucifer’s brother,” Amenadiel answers, knowing it will be the fastest way to put her at ease.

She raises an eyebrow but shrugs, not questioning him further. She yawns and rises, scratching her hip where her thong has left an indent in her skin. Amenadiel waits for her to leave the room before he goes back to searching through the clothes.

Eventually he finds trousers that fit and a dark blue shirt that, while perhaps a little tight-feeling across his shoulders, is his best choice of the clothes he’s found.

Dressing, he realizes that the sound of Lucifer’s singing has stopped. 

Amenadiel cocks his head, listening. If Lucifer has snuck away while Amenadiel is distracted….

But, no. That’s Lucifer’s laughter, low and sultry, and then Amenadiel hears a feminine voice whining with pleasure. Ah. _That’s_ where the young woman had gone.

Amenadiel seizes time and hears Lucifer make a loud, annoyed moan.

“We don’t have time for that, Lucifer!” Amenadiel shouts.

“You’re a bloody killjoy, you know that?” Lucifer shouts back.

But Amenadiel doesn’t release time until Lucifer adds: “FINE.”

It’s only a few minutes after that that Lucifer wanders back out into the main room, still toweling his hair but already dressed. He gives Amenadiel a once-over.

“I suppose it will have to do,” the Devil says.

~*~

Lucifer takes him to a den of iniquity. It’s more brightly lit than Amenadiel expected. The people seem healthy and prosperous. It’s not at all the sort of place Amenadiel had thought a thief would take his spoils, but perhaps it’s where they come to spend their riches. When he asks, Lucifer doesn’t disagree. 

Lucifer shoos him over to the bar to get drinks while he does reconnaissance. Lucifer already has a drink in hand, and Amenadiel frowns as he walks towards the bar. But, he supposes, most of the humans here are drinking. Like the clothes, perhaps it’s another way to blend in, to make these humans more comfortable and amenable to providing information about the theft. 

And, then, Amenadiel hears the music change.

Amenadiel turns, and _of course_, Lucifer is sitting at the piano now. _Of course_, he hasn’t taken any of this seriously.

Amenadiel stomps over and slams the glass of whiskey down on the piano top.

“You didn’t come here to find this thief, did you? You’re just trying to stall your return to Hell.”

“Oh. I _really_ hoped to get a few more drinks in before you worked that one out,” Lucifer says blithely.

“Luci, this isn’t some game!” Amenadiel scolds, infuriated. “Now, how many times do I have to tell you? Humanity should not –”

“It’s just a necklace, for crying out loud!” Lucifer interrupts him, _entirely_ missing the point.

“You _promised _me that you would help!”

“And I am – by distracting you from the painful reality that you’re never going to find it.”

The Devil punctuates the sentence with a glare, setting his drink down on the piano top with a defiant ‘clack’ of impact. He shoots Amenadiel an unrepentant smile and goes back to playing the piano.

Amenadiel turns away from Lucifer before he does something he’ll regret.

There will have to be another way to find the necklace, then, if Lucifer will be as useless as human law enforcement. What can Amenadiel do? Try to persuade Lucifer somehow? Slow time, check each of the millions of humans in this city one by one?

A hideous task, exhausting to even _consider_, but… if he has no other options…

The television broadcast catches his eye. The reporter speaks about a murder this morning, and Amenadiel winces, hoping humans hadn’t observed him being shot and _not_ being killed. But, no, the photograph is a young man who... upon consideration... seems somewhat _familiar_. Amenadiel studies the man’s face and realization washes over him.

He taps Lucifer’s arm, drawing his attention.

“Luci, look.”

Amenadiel walks closer to the television and behind him, he hears Lucifer sigh. The music stops and Lucifer comes to stand beside him at the bar.

“I know this man,” Amenadiel points at the screen. “The runner. Right before the theft.”

“What, you think he had something to do with it?”

“Exactly, brother. Whoever killed this ‘Aiden Scott’ must have run into the same thief who tried to kill me and then took my necklace.”

The reporter says: “The LAPD currently have no leads.”

Amenadiel glares.

“How are we going to find him if his own kind can’t even locate him.”

“Which is why I recommend drinking,” Lucifer quips. He reaches around Amenadiel and sets his now-empty glass on the bar top. The Devil pauses, watching the screen, and something seems to dawn on him.

“Actually, do you know, I think I _might_ be able to help you, brother,” Lucifer says. Amenadiel searches the screen, trying to spot whatever clue it was that has changed Lucifer’s tune. He doesn’t see it. “But I’m going to need more than a few extra hours here on Earth,” Lucifer concludes, grinning.

And, there drops the other shoe.

Lucifer is going to ask for a day, at least. Maybe a _week_ if he really feels like rubbing his advantage in, and he does seem to want to rub this in.

Amenadiel hates this. 

But, he needs to get the necklace back, and while Lucifer is happy enough to goad Amenadiel, it’s not like he won’t go back to Hell soon enough. Lucifer wouldn’t dare defy their Father like that.

Amenadiel sighs. “Name your price,” he says.

“Oooo,” Lucifer exhales. “Well actually, I can’t think of anything right now,” he says, and Amenadiel gives him credit for that. If he’d demanded a day and it took a day to find the necklace, it wouldn’t have meant any extra time on Earth. “So how about a blank check, cashed at the time of my choosing?”

Which… _fantastic_, Amenadiel thinks darkly. Lucifer is going to save this favor to drag his feet on some date in the future when Amenadiel wants him to leave immediately.

“Agreed,” Amenadiel says, resigned to it. 

“Oh, say it properly,” Lucifer says, and his grin couldn’t be wider. “_Say_ it,” the Devil coaxes. He is savoring every moment of this, Amenadiel knows. 

“Deal,” Amenadiel says, gritting his teeth and sending a mental apology to his future self.

“Deal,” Lucifer echoes.

~*~

Lucifer takes him to the set of a pornographic film, and Amenadiel is not remotely amused, even _after_ Lucifer explains why they’re there. 

Lucifer chases after their lead, Misty Canyons, and Amenadiel is dragged off by a presumptuous little human, where he’s asked to change clothes _again_.

Amenadiel will never understand Lucifer’s fascination with fashion. It’s _tedious_.

Some sort of tool is pushed into his hand, and then he’s directed out into the middle of a room.

Misty returns and asks him about _windows_, of all things.

“I am here to discuss a lost necklace,” Amenadiel says, frowning. 

“Oh, you’re a… window… washer… jeweler?” Misty asks, and Amenadiel’s frown deepens. Hadn’t Lucifer explained _anything _to her?

“No,” Amenadiel says slowly.

“Well, I haven’t seen your necklace,” she says, and disappointment floods through Amenadiel. “Was it made of pearls, by chance?”

“It’s actually a rod,” Amenadiel explains. “Unbreakable; very special.”

She shrugs off her robe and kneels in front of him.

“Time to see the family jewels,” she says to him huskily, reaching forward to touch him, and Amenadiel realizes that something important was probably lost in translation.

“What? No, no,” he says quickly, stepping back. “No, no, no, you’re not going to find my necklace down there.” He pulls her to her feet. “The man who killed Aiden Scott has it.”

Her expression changes in an instant. The coquettish confusion drops into shock and Amenadiel is relieved that someone is finally taking this seriously.

“What? Aiden’s dead?”

Her lip trembles and she presses her hands against her mouth, turning away from the cameras and walking from the room. Amenadiel follows, and Lucifer detaches himself from the spot on the wall where he’d been watching, stuffing his face, and trails after them both.

~*~

Misty gives him a motivation for Aiden’s murder, and more than that – she gives him a place to look. 

Amenadiel collects Lucifer from where he'd wandered off – the abundance of pornstars proving too great a distraction to the Devil for him to sit and actually listen to Misty. They head to Rico’s. 

It’s loud, and full of humans, and the center stage displays scantily clad women rolling around with each other.

“I could get used to this place,” Lucifer says, and Amenadiel rolls his eyes.

Amenadiel has to shout to be heard over the din.

“Lucifer. _Lucifer_. What is the plan?”

“The plan is to get a drink. Can’t think when I’m sober,” Lucifer says brightly, clapping Amenadiel on the back. Amenadiel bites back a retort about sobriety playing little role in Lucifer's ability to think one way or the other. 

They meet with the club owner, and things escalate rather quickly. A human punches him, and it’s laughable, really. He taps the mortal back, sending him flying.

“You just knocked out the heavyweight champion with one punch,” Tio says.

“As I said,” Lucifer smarms. “God’s finest.”

“My man,” Tio says. The man, who had refused to shake hands with Lucifer, offers his hand to Amenadiel. Amenadiel shakes it. “You’ll take Aiden’s spot in the fight. Mason, make it happen,” he says, and another of Tio’s muscular acquaintances steps forward.

They’re ushered into an office where Amenadiel signs paperwork discussing his payment for the fight, the liability for any injuries he occurs, and it’s all Amenadiel can do not to laugh. 

“Alright,” Mason tells them when they’re done. “We’ll see you tomorrow night, killer.”

“I have no intention of killing my opponent,” Amenadiel says.

“Nevermind him,” Lucifer laughs, waving Amenadiel’s comment away. “See you tomorrow. Ta!”

Lucifer ushers Amenadiel out of the office and back into the din. 

“Alright then, brother, that went well!” Lucifer congratulates himself. They pass a pair of beautiful women that ogle Lucifer, who ogles them shamelessly back. “Hmm. Don't mind if I do. You can see yourself back to the hotel, right?” Lucifer asks him.

Amenadiel frowns.

“Luci -”

“Listen, brother, nothing will be able to happen until tomorrow morning. _Relax_. _Enjoy_ yourself for once. Now if you'll excuse me, I believe I've been beckoned,” He smirks, tilting his head towards the brunette who's appraisal of the Devil has become an outright stare.

Lucifer claps Amenadiel on the shoulder and leaves him there, his low laughter audible only for a moment before he and the poor, mortal souls he's ensnared walk further into the club and are swallowed by the crowd.

Amenadiel stares after them.

He nods to himself, biting his lip. 

He had expected Lucifer's help to be a burden, and Lucifer is meeting his expectations and then some. Amenadiel wends his way through the club and back out into the street. The sidewalk is busy with people but there's an alley around the corner that's suitably removed from observers. Amenadiel slows time for a few seconds and spreads his wings.

He considers going back to Heaven, but rejects the idea immediately. He can't go back to the Silver City until his necklace is found and Lucifer is returned to Hell. Returning now would feel like a failure. He flies back to the hotel instead.

The ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign is still up on the door to the room, and when Amenadiel knocks, hoping a reveler is still within and that he won’t have to break in, Amenadiel is confronted with an angry-looking young man in his boxer shorts.

“What the Hell?” the man says. “I've been stuck here all day! Where's Lucifer? Why are you wearing my clothes? You had _better_ not have lost my phone!”

The man reaches for Amenadiel's hip, feeling down his leg, and with jerky, furious movements removes a device from Amenadiel’s pocket.

“Eighteen missed calls. _Fuck_. This is just what I needed.” He glares at Amenadiel, standing aside and gesturing for Amenadiel to step inside. “Well? Give me my damn clothes back!” 

Amenadiel unbuttons and takes off the shirt, passing it to the human while he mutters about “_knew_ I shouldn’t have followed that prettyboy up here,” and “Lucifer like the goddamn _devil_,” and Amenadiel chooses not to comment. He takes off his borrowed pants and hands them back. The man dresses quickly, slipping on his shoes and running frustrated hands back through his hair. 

He gives Amenadiel one more parting, venomous look before storming out and slamming the door shut behind him.

Amenadiel supposes he’s lucky the human didn’t find and wear out Amenadiel’s robes when he’d found his own clothes missing. Wouldn’t that have just been the icing on this awful cake?

Amenadiel pads through the hotel in his underwear, checking the cabinet where he’d placed his robes and releasing a relieved breath to find them exactly as he’d left them. He slips them back on gladly, though the missing weight at his neck makes him still feel naked.

The hotel room is empty of Lucifer’s guests, but lingering signs of the revelry remain. Canisters of whipped cream, flutes of champagne, a pair of panties that no one had claimed. 

It’s barely early evening. The sun has only just begun to set, and Amenadiel considers what to do with the time on his hands. According to Lucifer, nothing can be done until tomorrow.

Amenadiel flips through the hotel’s greeting packet, announcing the pool hours, their wifi policies, checkout procedures, and when he finds the room service options, he skims through the pages with more interest.

He orders a meal and a bottle of wine and, when the polite voice taking his order tells him it will be up in twenty minutes, Amenadiel turns back to the whirlwind of a room and considers where to sit. And, for that matter, where he could sleep. He’s haunted by Lucifer saying ‘I left quite a lot of divinity over there.’

He clears a space at the desk with the phone. It seems to be relatively untouched, and when his meal arrives, he sits and eats.

There are slices of strawberry in his salad, and he considers them, surprised by how large they are. The last time he’d tried strawberries, they’d been tiny, tart things. Pleasant, but wholly different than this. The same for the buttered greenbeans piled beside his cut of steak. Human domestication and engineering seems to have changed the fruits and vegetables from what they once were. Humans are, Amenadiel admits, remarkably clever sometimes.

He sips his wine slowly. It’s not a particularly old bottle but there’s still depth and subtleties in the flavor.

Through the window, Amenadiel watches the sun set. The view is mostly hidden by the surrounding buildings but the glow of colors across the sky is pleasant nonetheless. A tiny peek at Heaven’s splendor that goes mostly ignored by the mortals milling about below.

Amenadiel finishes the meal. 

He eyes the bed but dismisses it entirely. No way is he lying down on it, knowing what Lucifer has been up to.

He sighs and rises, making his way towards the bathroom.

It’s an opulent hotel and a generous bathroom. A large shower sits to the right; a bathtub large enough for two to the left. Amenadiel turns the taps on the latter, deciding that as long as he’s stuck here and indulging in hedonism, why stop at a meal?

He disrobes again, folding his vestments with care and setting them on the sink.

The water steams attractively and seeps warmth into his tense and tired muscles when he steps into the bath. He settles back and sighs.

It’s not one of Heaven’s pools. The porcelain is hard behind his head. The water doesn’t ease every ache. It’s better than nothing, though.

Amenadiel reads the labels on the bottles lining the edge of the tub and pours some of the contents in under the faucet. The flow of water churns up fragrant bubbles.

When the water has risen near to the lip of the tub, Amenadiel switches off the taps and lies back.

He replays the events of the day, considering what he could have done differently, what he could have done better.

It was foolish of him to have underestimated the human weapon. He has _seen_ what human weapons can do. He should have seized time, crushed the gun – or perhaps stolen it, or flown away, or…

But he hadn’t done any of those things.

Amenadiel thinks of the luck in seeing a news report at the café Lucifer had taken him to, and the unlikelihood of Lucifer recognizing a single pair of breasts.

Perhaps it was a small sign from God, that bit of fortune. Surely, it must be, which means God has found no fault in Amenadiel for seeking Lucifer’s aid.

The thought eases him.

He slides lower in the bath, letting the bubbles tickle their way up his neck.

~*~

Amenadiel wakes from a doze when the bathroom door opens. He scrambles to cover himself, taking time in his hold while he shakes off his muzzy thoughts.

“Oh, no one wants to see that,” Lucifer complains, turning his back towards the tub.

The hypocrisy of the statement makes Amenadiel gape at him.

“Okay, you, get dressed and shoo,” Lucifer says. “I’ve got a room for you a few floors down. I’ve found some lovely company and need this room back.” Lucifer plucks at Amenadiel’s robe where it sits on the sink. “And what happened to the outfit you had on?”

“The human that owned it wanted it back.”

“Ah, yes. Well. It wouldn’t do for tomorrow anyway. I’m having something sent up for myself; I suppose I’ll get you some kit while I’m at it.”

Lucifer glances over his shoulder at Amenadiel, then turns to leave.

“Go on, up you get. I can see the water’s gotten cold anyway.”

Amenadiel prays for patience.

“Why can’t _you _just take the other room?” Amenadiel calls after him.

Lucifer scoffs.

“Please. This is the penthouse suite,” the Devil says, like it’s actually an answer. He shuts the bathroom door behind himself to punctuate the sentence.

Amenadiel rubs his face with wet, pruning hands, and gets up, consoling himself with the knowledge he'd be taking Lucifer back to Hell soon.

~*~

The room is in the basement, which the hotel employee cheerfully tells Amenadiel isn’t even a regular room, but that Lucifer insisted it was the only place Amenadiel would be comfortable.

“How kind of him,” Amenadiel says through gritted teeth.

The bed, at least, is clean and freshly made. 

Sleep eludes him for hours, but he does eventually rest.

In the morning, he flies up to the balcony and enters Lucifer’s room to a sight not noticeably different than the one he’d walked into last time. Young, beautiful humans lie pressed against Lucifer as he slumbers in the rumpled bed. Signs of a party lay strewn about on the carpet, on the bedside tables. A mostly-naked woman lies asleep on the desk where Amenadiel had eaten his dinner, her legs spread wide.

One of Lucifer’s feet pokes out at the bottom of the tangle. Amenadiel reaches down and drags his thumbnail firmly up the sole.

Lucifer jerks his foot back, snapping awake.

“I _hate it_ when you do that,” he grouses angrily. Amenadiel shoots him an innocent smile.

“It’s morning, Lucifer. What’s the plan?”

Lucifer groans and wriggles out of the pile of limbs, pushing himself backwards to slip out at the foot of the bed. Free of the sheets, Amenadiel is confronted with the fact that Lucifer is naked, and he turns away with a roll of his eyes. 

He hears Lucifer scratching his stubbled chin and yawn.

“Was there a package outside the door? Or, no, you probably came in through… one sec.”

Despite the fact that it’d’ve been just as easy for Lucifer to walk behind him, Lucifer crosses the room in front of Amenadiel, treating him to another show as he plods over to the door. Amenadiel grunts with annoyance and Lucifer chuckles.

Lucifer opens the door shamelessly and makes a pleased hum.

“Here we are, then. Put this on,” Lucifer says, and something thumps into Amenadiel’s back with a crinkling of plastic. “I’ll just go freshen up.”

Amenadiel picks up the package of what turns out to be athletic clothing. Loose shorts, a sleeveless top, socks and sneakers.

“Luci, how is any of this going to help us get my necklace back?” Amenadiel calls. The Devil ignores him.

He hears the water in the bathroom switch on, shortly followed by the sound of Lucifer’s singing.

Amenadiel sighs. He has no idea what Lucifer has planned, but he knows he’s not looking forward to any of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Rubs hands* Oh dip, here we go. I cannot wait to tell you guys my ideas for what Amenadiel got up to in that 5-year gap between City of Angels and the Pilot. Soon!


	5. Chapter 5

As far as plans go, and as much as it pains Amenadiel to admit it, Lucifer does have a good idea. In order to flush out the thief, they’ll lure him in with the prospect of betting on a rigged fight. It’s devious and vaguely repugnant, and Amenadiel is glad he’s sought out Lucifer’s aid.

“But why do I need to train, Luci?” he argues. “I _am_ the Silver City’s greatest fighter.”

“Again, disputable,” Lucifer says, his smile sharp, and Amenadiel doesn’t like it that this is the second time in as many days Lucifer has challenged him like this. The Devil is getting cocky, forgetting his place, and Amenadiel holds onto the knowledge that Lucifer will be going back where he belongs soon enough. “You raised a few too many eyebrows with your one-punch knockout. So. No more displays of celestial strength. If we want to be approached, then you need to learn to fight like a human. Comprende?”

Amenadiel nods. It makes sense. A human doesn’t stand a chance against him, and in the effort of falsehood, Amenadiel will have to diminish himself and feign weakness. 

“Okay. Give us your worst,” Lucifer says, gesturing at a punching bag.

Amenadiel gives the bag a light punch which… breaks the chain and sends the bag flying across the room.

Lucifer gives him a disgusted sigh.

“Amenadiel,” Lucifer says, a rare note of seriousness creeping into his tone. “If we can’t lure our culprit out before tonight, you may have to get in a ring with a human and pretend to throw punches at them. _Practice_. If this is your bloody worst, you’ll decapitate the poor sod. And my, my,” He says, grin returning. “Wouldn’t Father be cross then? Hell may have to make room for another angel. Don’t worry. I’m sure I can find somewhere to put you.”

Amenadiel glares at him.

“I’m practicing,” he says simply, annoyed that Lucifer has a point.

“You’re going for _strong_, but not _celestially_ strong. A worthy _human_ fighter. Now. Maybe we should start with, oh, hmm, try moving that stack of weights, but make it look like it’s a real _effort_, yes? Like a human would. And dearie me, we’re going to have to work on your speed and agility as well. Hmm. Why don’t we start with weights and I’ll think on it.”

~*~

Amenadiel thinks he’s getting the hang of it by the time Tio enters the gym. He can punch the punching bags without sending them flying. He can duck and weave and mimic a human fighter. He even managed to catch the chicken twice without having to slow time, both times nearly squeezing too hard in his excitement at success, and both times only just managing to dial it back at the last moment.

Lucifer mocks him through the whole affair, and Amenadiel endures it. After all, Lucifer was right. Pretending to be less than he is isn’t something that comes naturally to Amenadiel.

He watches Tio approach Lucifer from the corner of his eye. Amenadiel continues shadow-boxing, dancing from foot to foot, pretending to be on par with a human.

Amenadiel is trying to find the humor in it. 

When Lucifer throws a punch of his own, toppling Tio to the floor, Amenadiel’s mood lifts immediately. He slows time, capturing Tio before his limbs have finished settling, and approaches them.

“Dear Mr. Sorento here was apparently responsible for arranging Aiden Scott’s fall. Seems a promising lead, wouldn’t you agree, brother?” Lucifer’s pleasure and having been proved correct is a palpable thing.

“So does he know where my necklace is?”

Lucifer rolls his eyes.

“Well we need to know who actually placed the bet on Aiden Scott, don’t we?”

Amenadiel looks down at the human.

“Why didn’t you just ask him that, then?”

Lucifer scoffs.

“Honestly, brother, do you really think he’d just _give_ us that information? No, no, no. There’s nothing these humans love more than money, and Tio would be getting quite a lot of money from our anonymous thief. Tio has every reason to keep that secret.”

“So what do we do now?”

“Well,” Lucifer grins, stooping down to pick the mortal up. He slings Tio over his shoulder. “We have to give Mr. Sorento a reason to give up that name. Apply some _pressure_, if you will.” Lucifer spreads his wings. Tio’s head and arms dangle along Lucifer’s back between them. It turns Amenadiel’s stomach to see this criminal’s hands brush along Lucifer’s divine feathers, but Lucifer doesn’t even seem to notice. “Shall we?”

In a quick whisk of his wings, Lucifer departs the gym.

~*~

Amenadiel watches Lucifer tie Tio to the hotel’s bed with such offhanded competence that he doesn’t even question where the ropes had come from.

The human is out cold and Amenadiel frowns.

“You hit him too hard,” he says.

“I hit him exactly hard enough,” Lucifer says, rolling his eyes. They consider the human. “Right,” Lucifer says. “Why don’t you stay here and keep an eye on him. There’s a change of clothes for you hanging in the closet. I’m going to go get a drink.”

“I’ll question him when he wakes up,” Amenadiel agrees easily, and Lucifer pauses, frowning back at him.

“Good point. I suppose I should prepare for when you utterly fail to get anything useful out of him.”

Amenadiel scowls at Lucifer but the Devil has already turned away, strutting from the room. And, shortly after that, he hears Lucifer depart from the hotel room altogether.

Amenadiel goes to the closet and is, bafflingly, confronted with the same outfit he’d stolen from the human the day before. How it ended up here, he has no idea. Amenadiel takes down the shirt and jeans hanging beside the pilfered outfit, not in a mood to deal with whatever mischief they represented.

Changed, Amenadiel takes a seat and waits. His eyes skim the contents of the room. Plates with food still on them, all manner of odd objects that he’s sure Lucifer has put to absurd and pornographic use. Amenadiel is careful to touch none of it.

Half an hour passes, and he hears Lucifer return just as the human stirs with signs of waking up. 

“Hello, Tio,” Amenadiel says, and the man’s eyes muzzily turn in his direction.

Tio jerks on the restraints, unconsciously at first, and then vigorously.

“What the hell?” he splutters. “What the fuck is this? Let me go!”

“Well, Tio, that’s not going to happen just yet. You see, something very valuable was stolen from me, and I’m confident you can tell me where it is.”

Tio glares at him.

“Go _fuck _yourself,” he spits.

The conversation goes rather downhill from there.

Amenadiel tries appealing to Tio’s better nature. He tries bribery – “My brother is rich. He can pay you whatever you want,” – and when that fails, he tries – “What is it you desire?” – but the words feel awkward in his mouth and Tio’s glare, if anything, becomes more incredulous.

Amenadiel grows frustrated. He grows _angry_ with the stubborn set of Tio’s jaw, his arrogance, and Amenadiel’s hands clench with a desire to lash out.

“Just tell me where it is!” Amenadiel snaps.

“I wouldn’t tell you even if I did know. Get fucked,” Tio answers, and Amenadiel raises his hand, wanting to strike the arrogant look off the man’s face.

Amenadiel swallows, hard, and stills the violent impulse.

Tio is a human. It’s unpleasant, thinking about how nearly Amenadiel had crossed a line.

“You will wish you had told me,” Amenadiel says darkly. “My brother is by no means so benevolent.”

It galls, admitting this defeat.

But, Amenadiel supposes, this is why he came to the Devil for help in the first place. Humans may have turned the phrase ‘necessary evil,’ but Amenadiel can appreciate it nonetheless.

Lucifer is settled into the couch, apparently watching television, when Amenadiel enters the main room.

“Oh,” he says. “So, uh, has he got your necklace?”

On the television, the shrill noise of a bell sounds, and Lucifer fumbles to turn it off. 

Amenadiel slumps into the armchair across from him.

“He claims not to know its whereabouts. I suppose it’s time to torture him. So. You’re up.”

Lucifer scoffs.

“Look, just because I’m the king of Hell doesn’t mean I actually do the torturing. I’m more of a delegator.”

Amenadiel gives him an incredulous look, but Lucifer continues, ignoring him.

“But, I assumed this was going to happen, so I popped back down while you were in there and brought up the best. You remember Mazikeen.”

The demon glides into the room and Amenadiel immediately feels the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

Mazikeen grins at him, malice and delight twinkling in her eyes.

“You brought a demon to Earth,” Amenadiel says.

“Are all your siblings this smart?” Mazikeen says to Lucifer, smirking.

“Regrettably,” Lucifer quips. “Well then, Maze,” he gestures towards the bedroom behind them. “Have fun. Try not to kill him.”

The demon unsheathes one of her hooked knives and brings it up to her lips, pressing the flat in just enough to dimple the flesh. She’s smiling when she leaves the room.

“You brought a _demon_. To _Earth_,” Amenadiel repeats. Lucifer rolls his eyes.

“I told you Tio wouldn’t tell you anything. Not without a bloody good reason. I know his type.”

“Of course you do,” Amenadiel muttered, scrubbing his face with his hands. “A _demon_, though? Why couldn’t you do this yourself?”

“Please,” Lucifer said disdainfully, setting aside the pillow in his lap and rising, wandering towards one of the plates of food still left behind and picking through it. “I come to Earth to get _away_ from all that noise. No, Maze loves this stuff. She has a real knack for breaking guilty souls down.” He finds a strawberry and pops it into his mouth.

Amenadiel frowns towards the bedroom, where little moans and cries have started trickling out.

He doesn’t like this, but, he reasons, he gave Tio every chance to do this the easy way.

“What did that human do?” Amenadiel finds himself asking, surprised at the words.

Lucifer chews, swallows, and frowns at Amenadiel.

“Which one?”

“The one in Hell. The one you were…”

“Oh, that.” Lucifer shrugs and goes back to picking through the plate. He tips his head upwards as if in thought. “He spent his life stealing from his people, taxing them for his greed. Whittling away at the poorest, piece by piece, until families starved.” Lucifer snorted. “And the thing he felt guilty about was a pet cat he crushed under a wagon wheel,” Lucifer shoots Amenadiel a gleaming look. “He’d’ve been one of yours, if Mr. Boots had chosen a better place to sleep.”

Lucifer offers the plate towards Amenadiel. Amenadiel shakes his head. Lucifer sets it down and wanders into the little kitchenette area of the suite, rifling through packages that crinkle until he makes a please sound. He punches some buttons on one of the devices, shoving his found treasure inside, and with a few seconds a steady ‘popping’ sound accompanies the quieter moans still audible from the bedroom. The room starts to smell like warm popcorn, and when Lucifer opens the microwave door to retrieve his bounty, the smell intensifies.

Lucifer settles back onto the couch with his bucket of popcorn and tilts his head at Amenadiel, staring at him as if he wants to ask something, and for such a long time that Amenadiel finally breaks the silence to prompt: “What?”

Lucifer licks his lips and leans forward, thumb turning the ring on his right hand. He inhales to speak, but the moment breaks when Maze strides back into the room.

“Well, that human didn’t kill anybody. And he doesn’t know where your stupid necklace is, either.”

Lucifer smiles at the sound of whimpering drifting in from the open bedroom door.

“Also a bit of a crier, it seems. I hope you didn’t go _too_ hard, Maze; he’s not in Hell yet.”

“Oh, no,” Mazikeen says, grinning with pride. “Those are tears of joy.”

Lucifer smiles back at her, like they’re sharing a joke.

“Oh, so he’s a masochist?” he laughs. “They can be quite tricky. What did you use to inflict the pain?”

Mazikeen leans forward, beaming.

“_Nothing_,” she says.

Lucifer’s eyebrows scrunch in confusion. “Hmm?”

“In Hell, I have to use their own guilt against them as torture. The method is chosen for them but _here_… Lucifer… _Infinite possibilities_.” She’s positively gleeful. “I got so excited, I just had sex with him!” she laughs.

Amenadiel groans in disgust.

“And then he wouldn’t shut up!” Mazikeen continues, beaming with her pleasure. She has wasted valuable time and, much like her king, is a presence here on Earth that needs to be corrected as soon as possible.

“Enough!” Amenadiel says. “That man tried to bribe me into throwing a fight, all right? Now, he practically admitted doing the same with Aiden Scott, so he must be lying to you.”

The humor drains off of Mazikeens face immediately. 

“Nobody lies to me,” she says, with the coldness of a hard-won fact. “The human said he wanted to fix the dead one’s fight, but someone beat him to it.” She turns to Lucifer, dismissing Amenadiel. “Said someone placed a huge anonymous bet. Half a million dollars on Aiden Scott losing.”

“Whoever placed that bet probably killed Aiden Scott and stole my necklace,” Amenadiel reasoned.

“Tio doesn’t know who that is either,” Maze said, rolling her eyes. “Said they only communicated anonymously through…” She waves her hands and is clearly quoting Tio when she says “Burner phones and dead drops.”

She shrugs at Lucifer, who shrugs back. Must be something new the humans have come up with, then.

“So,” Amenadiel says, latching onto the pieces he’d understood. “Tio has no idea who this man is, and has no way of finding out. Which basically means your so-called torture has been _useless_.”

The demon’s eyes glint dangerously. Slowly, she rises from her chair and steps right into Amenadiel’s space. She’s several inches shorter than him, and while Amenadiel knows she’s dangerous, he’s not threatened. He’s _annoyed._

“You wanna go, bird boy?” she taunts.

“Oh, now this is getting interesting,” Lucifer comments from the couch, picking up his neglected bucket of popcorn and munching on a piece.

“Luci, we still need to find this thief,” Amenadiel reminds him.

The Devil sighs. “And you’re not gonna…?” He gestures at the space between Amenadiel and Mazikeen, then releases a disappointed breath. “Very well.” He set the popcorn down. “Whoever stole your necklace tried to gamble on a sure thing. So, maybe we could persuade our thief to gamble on another.”

He bounced his eyebrows in a self-satisfied gesture.

“So if we convince this killer thief to bet on my fight instead, and I take the fall I promise to take, then we wait wherever the money is supposed to be dropped off and then see who shows up.”

“You are cleverer than you look,” the Devil said, grinning. “Maze, do you think you can persuade Tio to arrange that?”

The demon gave the plunger she was holding a sly look.

“Where should I begin?”

Lucifer made a low chuckle.

“Would you like a hand?” he offered. Mazikeen gave Lucifer a top-to-toe look and smirked, striding back towards the bedroom. Lucifer rose and followed after her.

“I’m just going to… go downstairs,” Amenadiel said, resigned. They both ignored him.

The hotel had a lounge that served drinks, played a local sports game, but it was barely past noon and the few sad people that mill around, seeking intoxication in isolated bubbles, are off-putting.

He thinks for a moment and, with a quick expenditure of power and a flap of his wings, takes himself to Rico’s.

The floor is set up for tonight’s fight. The ring, with its surrounding cage and elevated platform, the modern twist of an old, old human habit of making a spectacle of violence.

Amenadiel slips his fingers through the metal grid of the cage and thinks forward to tonight. He thinks forward to the prospect of ‘fighting’ a human, and the absurdity of him having to pretend to _lose_ to one of them. He imagines the fight, sketching a mental image of Aiden Scott to spar against. How much should Amenadiel pretend to be affected by their punches? Should he retreat, dance back, pretend to rally? 

“Hey, you’re not supposed to be here,” someone tells him, and Amenadiel turns, pulling his fingers back.

“My apologies,” he says. “I’m Amenadiel. I’m fighting here tonight?”

He smiles, dipping his head, shrugging apologetically.

“I wasn’t able to get a hold of Tio and I was hoping to get more information about who my opponent will be?”

~*~

Amenadiel is watching footage of the fighter he’s to go up against, the video a little rough on the laptop the human has generously shared with him, when he hears Lucifer’s prayer.

_Amenadiel, not sure where you’ve wandered off to, but make your way down to Rico’s. Time to get ready._

“Thank you,” Amenadiel says – and, glancing around, he realizes that the other employees have started preparing to open the doors.

“No problem,” she says. “I remember my first big fight. That little extra bit always helps, you know? Good luck tonight!”

He nods his thanks, and when her eyes drift up past Amenadiel dreamily, he knows Lucifer has arrived.

“Ah, good,” the Devil says. He holds up yet more clothing. “Shall we?”

There are two small locker-rooms in the employees-only area, presumably one for each fighter, and Lucifer confidently picks the one on the right, either by some foreknowledge that it’s allocated for them, or for a complete lack of care if it’s already in use.

Amenadiel changes into the loose boxing shorts, the zip-up hoodie. He offers his hands to Lucifer again, having fumbled with taping them up earlier. It’s not as though he’s had reason to wrap his hands for a fight previously. Lucifer’s fingers complete the work with easy competence, having always had a knack at picking up tactile tasks quickly. 

Outside, the rumble of a crowd has started in earnest, and the music thumps through the balls of his feet. 

“Do you hear that, brother? Such an eager audience,” Lucifer grins. “Did you ever see the mock navel battles at the colosseum? Well, I say _mock_, but they certainly killed each other.”

“Can’t say I did,” Amenadiel says.

“They’d flood the entire arena, then come out with these crafty little flat-bottomed boats to float around on the shallow water and start whacking at each other with swords. Surprising how many drowned, but, then, that’s gladiators for you.”

He shoots Amenadiel a smirk.

“Try not to drown.”

“I’ll do my best,” he says flatly, smothering a smile. He has a giddy sort of energy running through him, despite the upcoming embarrassment of this performance. It’s a good plan, and Amenadiel is relieved that things will go back to how they’re supposed to be within a few hours. He will have his necklace back. Lucifer, and the demon he brought up, will both be back in Hell. Amenadiel will go home, back to his book, and enjoy a few years of peace before the Devil pops back up again.

“Mind you, Rome also had fantastic street vendors. Not a 12-varieties-of-whiskey sort of venue, but you know what, I have _such_ a craving for a cheese pie. I wonder if there’s anywhere that still makes them? I could probably figure it out, but we’ll need to do a bit of grocery shopping after this.”

“Luci, once we get the necklace…” Amenadiel trails off, and he watches Lucifer blink back to reality. His expression flickers and falls.

“Yes,” he says. “Right, of course. Next time, then.” He nods his acceptance, and, after a beat, glances at Amenadiel from the corner of his eye. “You know, your constant presence on this trip didn’t make it _completely_ terrible.”

Amenadiel sniffs and adjusts the wrappings around his hands. 

Someone knocks on the door and enters.

“You’re up next,” the employee says, gesturing for them to follow him. They leave the room and he points back in the direction they’d come from. “Head back up towards the main door and go up the hallway towards the left. You’ll hear when they call you. Head out to the stage, pump up the crowd a bit. Yao will be out sixty seconds after you’re called.”

Information dispatched, the employee headed to the other locker room, presumably to impart similar instructions to Amenadiel’s opponent.

The noise of the crowd swells the closer they get to the exit. Lucifer peeks his head around the curtain, body language indicating a considerable number of people as his eyes sweep back and forth. Amenadiel bounces on his toes, jabbing at the air, putting ‘you’re swinging at a human, you’re swinging at a _human_,’ in the forefront of his mind.

“I didn’t expect you to be so happy to lose your first fight ever, brother. And to a _human_ no less.” Lucifer’s grin is mocking and satisfied. It’s certainly no hardship to _him_ that this plan puts Amenadiel in this position.

“Nice try, Luci, but we both know this doesn’t count.”

“Ah,” Lucifer says dismissively.

“Not to mention the fact that no mere mortal could ever stand a chance against the full power of my God-given-”

“Forget it; I regret mentioning it,” Lucifer says, rolling his eyes.

The crowd cheers at something. A bell ding-ding-ding-dings. A match has just finished.

“Looks like you’ll be up soon, brother,” Lucifer says, peering through the beaded curtain again.

“Luci,” Amenadiel says. “Thanks.”

“What?” He glances back, confusion written across his face, and Amenadiel thinks he must not have heard him. He tips his head at Lucifer. He knows this would have been an infinitely more difficult task without the Devil’s insight into humanity’s lost souls.

“Thanks for your help. I mean, I will admit that I was a bit skeptical of your plan, but this might actually work.”

“Yes, of course it’ll work, brother; that’s why you asked _me_, remember? Someone craft, smart –”

“And evil,” Amenadiel laughs, agreeing with him. Left on his own, without exploiting that criminal element, retrieving his necklace would have taken ages. Amenadiel throws a few more slow jabs.

“Evil?” Lucifer repeats. The crowd outside cheers, and Amenadiel listens closely for his name to be called.

“Well, if you want to find a deplorable criminal,” he tells Lucifer, distracted, “You just ask a – well, you know what I mean, Luci. Come on.” The announcer starts speaking, rattling up the crowd even more. Is that an introduction? “You are the Devil, after all,” he adds. 

That was definitely his name.

Amenadiel steps through the beaded curtain and is engulfed in the noise. He has seen what these fighters do as they approach the ring and mimics it – grinning up at the humans, warming up with shadow boxing. Someone tries to start a chant of his name and says it wrong – “Em-deal! Em-deal! Em-deal!”

He sees people holding up little devices – phones and cameras – to record him. It’s annoying to think there will be a record of this, and more annoying to know that he won’t be able to slow time while it’s happening. Not with so many eyes on him.

Amenadiel steps up into the platform and the referee inside holds open the cage’s padded door to allow him to enter. Amenadiel looks out at the milling press of blood-thirsty humans. They’re ecstatic, waiting to see people beating each other into submission. It’s slightly grotesque and, he tries not to admit to himself, a little exhilarating, even knowing that he’ll be pretending to lose.

Two rounds, they’d decided. The first round, Amenadiel will have to make it look like he’s an equal competitor who is being slowly bested, and then on the second round, as soon as Yao gets a halfway decent punch to Amenadiel’s head, he’ll falter with… left foot or right foot? He suppose he’ll play it by ear, depending on what Yao actually does. Once he’s on his knees, the other man will probably try to grapple with him, and then all Amenadiel needs to do is tap the man to indicate his forfeiture. 

Simple.

Easy.

Amenadiel can do this.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer calls, and Amenadiel feels a pleasant zing of adrenaline. “We have a scratch on the card! Please welcome a new fighter to the cage: Lucifer Morningstar!”

For a moment, Amenadiel is sure that he _must have_ heard that incorrectly, and he spins around to see –

Lucifer.

Bare-chested, bare-footed, wearing his suit trousers and a venomous glare.

Amenadiel is dumbfounded. He has no idea why Lucifer is here, why he looks so angry, _why_ he’s throwing the plan away.

“You wanted the Devil? Well, you’ve got him.”

And his eyes burn unholy red while he smiles.

The bell rings, and Lucifer starts circling him, raising his hands as if he really intends to fight Amenadiel.

“Where is the human fighter?” Amenadiel demands.

Because – maybe, maybe the human had… fallen ill, or – or maybe Lucifer is improvising to keep the plan going in the face of an unexpected obstacle.

“Off to join the Renaissance fair, whatever that is. Apparently, he _loves_ the mandolin.” There’s something in his cadence, in the gleam in Lucifer’s eye, that tells Amenadiel plainly that he had drown that desire out of the human. This is no mistake. “So that leaves you,” Lucifer points at him. “With big, bad _me_.”

“Why are you doing this, Lucifer?”

Lucifer spreads his hands, feigning innocence.

“Well, who better than the Devil to help you do something so _wickedly _dishonest as to throw a fight?”

And then Lucifer crosses the separating space between them. Crosses a line that’s been between them, and punches Amenadiel squarely in the face.

Amenadiel’s head rocks to the side and he grunts.

That hadn’t been fake punch.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” Lucifer says. He smiles like a feral thing; all teeth and malice, and Amenadiel _doesn’t understand_.

“This is pointless!” he shouts. He’s angry. They were so close to accomplishing all that they needed to, and Lucifer is jeopardizing it for no reason. It’s selfish and petty, and so completely what Lucifer is that, more than anything, Amenadiel is annoyed at _himself_ for forgetting it.

“Well, we’re finally answering the age-old question – who’d win in a fight; you or me?”

Amenadiel’s hands are dropped firmly by his side, not even pretending to raise them against Lucifer.

“This. Doesn’t. Count.” He bites out. 

Lucifer presses himself back against the cage, twinging his fingers into the links and flexing against it.

“So be it, brother,” Lucifer purrs, all coiled tension and intent. “So be it.”

He launches himself at Amenadiel, striking him in the face, his stomach, his face again – and Amenadiel can feel his lip burst to blood against his teeth. There is nothing at all playful or fake about the power Lucifer is putting behind his blows. Lucifer knees him in the chest, sending him back against the cage behind him, and wraps an arm around Amenadiel’s neck. Amenadiel grabs Lucifer’s leg to prevent that knee from landing anywhere more sensitive. He can feel the tension running through Lucifer’s body.

Amenadiel looks away, and Lucifer presses into Amenadiel’s space, so close that the heat of his breath washes across Amenadiel’s face as he taunts him.

“I’ll make sure I tell everyone in Heaven and Hell how the _undefeated_ warrior lost to his loser, evil, little brother.” Lucifer laughs. “Oh, I guess you’re not so tough after all, are you, eh? Daddy’s boy!” he growls, and something in Amenadiel… snaps.

He pushes Lucifer back, and when Lucifer goes in for another punch, he ducks under Lucifer’s arm, answering with a blow of his own. The crowd cheers and cheers and _cheers_, oblivious to what they’re actually witnessing.

Amenadiel throws Lucifer hard enough to send him tumbling. In the pause while Lucifer claws his way back upright, Amenadiel spits his mouthful of blood off to the side.

The humans whistle and clap, and Amenadiel reminds himself that there is still a job to be done here. He raises his hands in acknowledgment of the crowd. Their lust for violence echoes through him, heady and terrible.

“See?” Lucifer spits. “You’re just as bad as me, brother. Pride is your sin, too!”

It sets a match to Amenadiel’s temper – that Lucifer would _dare_ to compare the two of them - and when Lucifer comes in swinging, Amenadiel doesn’t hold himself back. He throws elbows, uppercuts. He lands blows that send blood pouring down Lucifer’s face, and there’s a frustrated, stymied part of him that delights in seeing it. In _finally_ putting Lucifer in his place. In finally pounding that smirk out of existence.

Amenadiel punches Lucifer as hard as he can, and divine blood sprays along the ground. 

Amenadiel… looses track of himself. He and Lucifer fight and genuine anger spurs them both into cruelty. Amenadiel doesn’t fight strategically. He isn’t planning ahead. There’s no artistry in this. He sends his fists at Lucifer with a pure intent to hurt him.

A hard blow sends Lucifer sliding down the cage, and Amenadiel grabs him by the throat and drags him back upwards, punctuating his ‘Get up!’ with a punch to Lucifer’s face.

Lucifer is dazed by the blow, and Amenadiel…

He’s lifting Lucifer up, pressing him back into the cage and holding him in place to keep beating him. 

Lucifer isn’t fighting him back.

Reality reasserts itself, and Amenadiel feels sick.

“What am I doing?” he mutters, dropping the hand he’d raised to do further damage.

Lucifer’s eyes narrow, and he bares his teeth.

“Fight me,” the Devil demands, panting. There’s blood pouring down the side of his face where his skin spit over his cheekbone, and by his jaw, and across his nose. Amenadiel can feel the tacky wetness on his knuckles. He had _felt _it when his heel had broken one of Lucifer’s ribs. 

Amenadiel has blood in his mouth and is intimately aware of the injuries he has on his own person. His head is spinning from the last punch Lucifer landed, and a small, frighten part of him wonders if he might lose in earnest.

Lucifer snarls at him, brimming with violence, and Amenadiel knows – Lucifer won’t stop. He will keep going with this fight, as single-minded as a rabid animal, until one of them truly can’t rise anymore.

It’s sobering, and Amenadiel is disgusted by how close he’d come to letting it happen.

“No,” Amenadiel says. At Lucifer’s incredulous flinch, Amenadiel’s resolve hardens. He doesn’t need to punch Lucifer to put him in his place. “You see,” and Amenadiel leans close, “I won’t _stoop down_ to your level. Because I _am_ better than you are.”

He looks away from Lucifer, unwilling to see the emotion that races through the Devil’s eyes. 

He turns his back and walks towards the center of the ring. He’s ready to end this.

When Lucifer leaps onto his back, pressing an arm across Amenadiel’s throat, he makes himself ignore the provocation, the desperate “Fight me!” that spills from Lucifer’s lips.

Amenadiel sinks to one knee and taps Lucifer on the arm.

The referee plucks at Lucifer’s wrist and Lucifer is confused enough by the interruption to allow himself to be pulled up and away.

“Winner by submission!” the man calls, and the crowd goes wild.

Amenadiel stays kneeling. He doesn’t want to look at Lucifer right now.

It _burns_ that Lucifer is a little bit right about Amenadiel’s sins. There is a bleeding wound to Amenadiel’s pride that is an injury more keenly felt than any of the bruises and cuts he wears. Amenadiel swallows, hard, and pushes it aside.

They are nearly done, here, and he can endure.

Staff escorts Amenadiel out of the ring. Someone wipes the blood off Amenadiel’s face and shines lights in his eyes, asking Amenadiel if anything is broken.

Amenadiel laughs bitterly.

“No,” he says. 

The man bandages the wounds on Amenadiel’s face. Amenadiel could tell him that it’s unnecessary; that it would heal soon enough on its own, but the conversation feels like too much effort.

Behind him, the crowd still applauds for Lucifer’s victory. Amenadiel doesn’t look back at the ring, at Lucifer. When the medical staff dismisses him, he walks straight back to the locker room.

The suit from the day before – the one Amenadiel had inadvertently stolen – is hung neatly beside a dark suit that Amenadiel is sure that Lucifer intends to wear himself, and it’s presence is baffling. 

It speaks of a premeditation for things to follow the plan they’d agreed upon. Which, by extension, means that Lucifer’s deviation from that plan was him following a whim; impulsive and destructive as a child.

Amenadiel has shown Lucifer far too much leeway lately. The Devil forgets his punishment and his duties, and Amenadiel feels that responsibility keenly.

He’s buttoning the shirt when Lucifer joins him in the locker room, and the silence is a thick, uncomfortable wall between them. There are bandages on Lucifer’s face, too, and the smudge of a black eye is already a dark bloom on his skin.

Amenadiel lingers over tying the laces of his shoes, fingers slightly clumsy for his swollen knuckles and the unfamiliar action. Behind him, he can hear the deft efficiency of someone very used to getting in an out of clothes quickly.

“Shall we?” Lucifer says tonelessly. Without waiting for a response, Lucifer spreads his wings and vanishes.

Amenadiel takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.

It takes him a few minutes to pinpoint where Lucifer has gone. They hadn’t discussed this beforehand, but the Devil leans against a cement column close to a row of lockers, and Amenadiel understands this is where the collection will take place. Lucifer has taken his bandages off. The scabs and bruises are fading already.

Amenadiel takes his own bandages off, discarding them in a nearby trashcan, and comes to stand against the adjacent side of the column. 

Lucifer smokes quietly, and Amenadiel watches people walk along the boardwalk in front of the ocean. He imagines he’ll need to linger on Earth for the rest of the day to allow his visible wounds to heal. He doesn’t want to deal with questions from his siblings if he returns to Heaven looking like this. 

He thinks again about Uriel wishing him luck; about the uncanniness of the archangel’s ability to prognosticate. 

This is the longest stretch of time Lucifer has ever been quiet, and it isn’t much of a surprise that he’s the one to break the silence first.

“Most impressive, brother, swallowing your pride like that,” Lucifer muses, not looking at Amenadiel. He sniffs. “Hope you haven’t spent too long on Earth. It seems to have softened you.”

The words are intended to provoke. Amenadiel doesn’t rise to the bait. 

“Luci, I just hope whoever stole my necklace won’t take too long to pick up their winnings. The sooner I can grab him and retrieve it, the sooner I can leave.”

Lucifer glances at him, and his expression is closed off.

“I think we’ve both stayed here for far too long.”

Lucifer turns his head back towards the lockers. Silence falls between them again.

And, then, Lucifer taps Amenadiel on the chest.

“Killer-slash-necklaces thief alert,” he says, and Amenadiel follows his line of sight to the furtive-looking human loitering in front of the lockers, unsubtly glancing around for observers before opening the locker and retrieving a heavy bag of cash.

“Ah, _there_ you are,” Lucifer says, a predatory smile gracing his lips. 

As the human starts to retreat, a woman rounds the corner, shouting at him: “Gil, drop the bag!”

Amenadiel seizes time. 

The thief is an older man, vaguely familiar, and when Lucifer picks him up, the duffle bag in his hand slips loose from his fingers and beings to drift down to the ground.

Lucifer flaps his wings and Amenadiel follows them back to the hotel.

~*~

Lucifer has dumped the human into one of the armchairs, and when Amenadiel releases time, the man has nothing but irrelevant, befuddled questions. They grate on Amenadiel’s patience, as do Lucifer’s sarcastic answers.

“It’s just a necklace – what’s the big deal?”

And all of the drama and humiliations and stress that he’s endured in an effort to retrieve his necklace comes bubbling out.

“Because my _Father_ gave it to me!” he yells, pleased to see the human cow before his wrath.

The human spills out his explanations and excuses, and Amenadiel couldn’t care less about why he did it.

“I’m going to ask you for the last time,” Amenadiel says slowly. “Where. Is my necklace.”

“It’s in the gym. It’s in my safe.”

A weight feels like it’s been lifted from Amenadiel’s shoulders. _Finally_, something has gone right.

“Let’s go drop him back at the beach,” he says to Lucifer, but Lucifer holds up a finger.

“Just a moment,” he asks, far more compelled by the human’s story than Amenadiel had been, and the Devil sinks into a crouch. “So you killed your so-called _son_ for refusing to play a part in your plan? Now, that is just pure evil.” He cocks his head, teasing the word _evil_, giving it weight. “And I should know.” Lucifer leans closer to him. “Because I am the King of evil.”

Lucifer shows the human his twisted, Hellish form, and the human screams in abject terror.

Amenadiel looks away.

“_Now_ we can go,” Lucifer says, while the man gibbers and panics. 

Amenadiel slows time, and the noise of the man’s horror ceases. 

“Actually, you know what?” Lucifer says. “Can you take him back yourself? There’s something I need to see to.”

Amenadiel gives Lucifer a suspicious look.

“You’re not going to run away, are you?”

“Not at all, brother. You’ve my word on that.”

Amenadiel nods and lifts the human. He’s back on the beach in a few quick beats of his wings, and drops the man more or less where they’d collected him from. 

In another beat, he heads back to the gym. It takes some searching but Amenadiel eventually locates the safe. He doesn’t have Lucifer’s ability to charm locks into opening, but it’s easy enough to pull the door open with force.

There, thrown carelessly into the back of the safe, behind documents and stacks of money, is his necklace.

Amenadiel picks it up with a sigh. The familiar weight, when he settles it around his neck again, makes him close his eyes in gratitude.

It has been only moments since he left Lucifer, and Amenadiel…

He heads back to the beach. He doesn’t know what last bit of debauchery Lucifer wanted to squeeze in before returning to Hell, but Amenadiel wants a moment to think.

Bills of money are still scattering in the wind. A little ways down the beach, he sees a woman pushing aside her companion, hand reaching out to grasp the fluttering bill. 

Amenadiel is ready to be done with Earth for a while. The grubby greed and selfish motivations of the humans leave a bad taste at the back of his mouth. 

He walks past them, his shoes scuffing through the sand as he leaves the paved areas, past the boardwalk. He lets time go with a sigh, and stands to watch the waves roll in. The noise of the chaos behind him isn’t drowned out by the crash and lap of the water, but it’s muted. The sun, just starting to dip below the horizon, is warm on his bruised face. 

Amenadiel watches the sunset. The colors splash across the sky, almost a tease for his return to Heaven.

He thinks about Uriel again, and he wonders, not for the first time, how the archangel could have known things would go poorly this trip. Amenadiel thinks it wasn’t the theft of his necklace, but that – somehow, Uriel had predicted that Lucifer would lash out.

It’s been building for a while, Amenadiel supposes. He hopes, now that Lucifer has gotten it out of his system, things can go back to normal.

Amenadiel slows the mortal world and spreads his wings, focusing on the faint throb of Lucifer’s power, and flies back to Rico’s.

~*~

Afterwards…

After Lucifer makes his declaration of rebellion – such a calm, nearly gentle refrain of the way Samael had screamed his defiance before…

After Amenadiel leaves the club, dazed and sick with dread…

He thinks: At least there wasn’t a war, this time. At least this time it was bloodless.

He runs his hands over his head, feeling the pull of knitting wounds, and he amends that thought.

~*~

Amenadiel flies back to the hotel, to the not-a-room in the basement, and lies on the uncomfortable bed, eyes turned up towards the ceiling.

He considers and rejects the idea of flying back to the Silver City. 

If the other angels knew that Lucifer had done this, they would riot. God would have to get involved. Perhaps, his siblings would come down to Earth themselves and –

It would get out of hand far too quickly. There would be a divine battle on Earth; something God had forbidden.

Amenadiel can’t allow that to happen.

Should he pray, then? Ask God for guidance, for assistance?

But this is a mess Amenadiel had made himself. He never should have agreed to such an open-ended favor. He never should have allowed a human to shoot him. Amenadiel made this mess, and it is up to him to clean it up.

So… no. He can’t go back to Heaven. Not until he gets Lucifer back to Hell. God gave Amenadiel this task, and while he has faltered, while Amenadiel has undeniably made missteps, he hasn’t _failed_. Not yet. He can fix this.

Amenadiel can fix this.

He just has to figure out how.

~*~

Amenadiel doesn’t sleep.

He spends the night considering and rejecting idea after idea. Lucifer’s “leave me be” means Amenadiel can’t simply knock him out and drop him back in Hell physically. What would be the point? The Devil would simply fly back up, angrier than ever, and Amenadiel will have broken his word. And Amenadiel can’t recruit a sibling to do it for him, either. What a mess _that_ would be. 

He doubts he’ll be able to coax Lucifer into a new bargain – the Devil is going to be on high alert, no doubt. Waiting for God to strike him down, when Amenadiel knows…

It has been quite a while since God has shown any interest in Lucifer at all. Father’s last word on the matter was the task he gave to Amenadiel, eons ago, to return Samael to Hell.

Amenadiel scrubs his face.

He can’t assume God will fix this, but he _can_ assume that Lucifer will be looking for a trap.

He’ll have to approach this a different way, then. 

The door to the room opens and the human that steps in makes a startled noise at seeing him.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” the woman asks. Her nametag says Rachael. 

“This is my room,” Amenadiel says.

She frowns.

“This is a storage closet. How did you even get a bed in here?”

Which, Amenadiel supposes, does explain both the cramped quarters and why the place smelled of cleaning supplies.

“My apologies,” Amenadiel says, rising to his feet and stepping past her. She scowls after him but seems too confused by the whole thing to argue.

Amenadiel rounds a corner, spreads his wings, and slows time.

Lucifer is still in the city. He is, in fact, still at Rico’s. 

Much to Amenadiel’s dismay, so is the demon.

“She’s still here?” Amenadiel blurts, and they both turn cold, calculating eyes on him. This is not how Amenadiel had intended to start this conversation. He clears his throat.

Mazikeen smirks at him and withdraws her curved blades, twirling them with idle menace. She’s still wearing black leather but it’s something closer to the style the humans wear. It speaks dangerously of the intended longevity of her stay.

“I am sworn to Lucifer,” she says. “I go where he goes.”

“And right now, Lucifer is quite busy converting this space into an appropriate den of sin,” Lucifer says, gesturing his arms wide at the people moving at a molasses crawl around the area. They’re taking down the fighting ring, moving pieces and boxes and scrutinizing clipboards. 

“What?” Amenadiel asks.

“Well, I bloody own the place now, don’t I?” Lucifer says, barely paying Amenadiel any attention. He tilts his head, considering one of the sides of the room. “I’m thinking a mechanical bull.”

“A – what, why?”

“For the robots to eat, of course,” Lucifer says, sarcasm thick. He turns to Amenadiel and spreads his hands impatiently. “Well, brother, you’re being a nuisance. Was there something you needed?”

Lucifer looks at Amenadiel as if looking through him. Not defensive. _Dismissive_.

“How long are you planning to stay here?” Amenadiel asks.

The smile Lucifer turns on Amenadiel is all teeth.

It’s answer enough.

Amenadiel nods, once, twice. He flies back to the beach to think, releasing time when his sandals touch the sand.

“_Fuck_,” Amenadiel mutters, passionately.

~*~

Amenadiel watches Lucifer for days, perched out on a rooftop across the street, flying away only when humans venture near the spot where he’s tucked himself away. Workers come and go from Lucifer’s building at all hours, taking things out of the building, moving new things in. Lucifer’s immense and inscrutable wealth at work. Half of the workers leave with dazed, satiated smiles. It’s not hard to imagine what befell them.

Amenadiel watches and thinks, and watches, and thinks, half hoping that some word will trickle down from the Silver City and half dreading it.

On the fifth day, Amenadiel blinks back from a doze, slouched against the raised lip of the roof, to find Mazikeen squatting on her heels a mere foot away from him, staring at him with such glee that he shivers.

“Time for you to move along, angel,” the demon says.

“I do not answer to the likes of you,” Amenadiel replies coldly.

Mazikeen smirks. The knives in her hand glint in the afternoon sunlight. She says nothing else to him, her point firmly made, and saunters away. The rooftop door clangs loudly shut behind her.

Amenadiel scrubs his face with shaking hands. He needs to sleep.

He flies to the hotel room – the _storage _room – where he’d slept previously, but cleaning supplies have been moved back in. Amenadiel checks the penthouse room that Lucifer had used. It’s occupied.

Amenadiel could acquire some money and buy a room. Where… does one get money? He has no idea how Lucifer has built his wealth. Favors and gifts, bargains and theft. Amenadiel thinks of the safe where his necklace had been so carelessly thrown, and the stacks of money it had been hidden behind.

He flies to the gym but finds the safe empty. Dimly, he remembers leaving the door open when he had left. Easy enough to figure out what had happened to that abandoned wealth.

Amenadiel sighs, angry and annoyed. 

But, he decides, since it’s Lucifer’s fault that Amenadiel can’t simply go back to Heaven to rest, it will also be Lucifer’s problem to fix.

The building’s façade has been stripped of the previous owner’s name and now proudly states: LUX.

Amenadiel scowls at the word. 

The interior of the building has been redecorated, but there are still bits and pieces of Rico’s establishment present in the mirrored bar, the dark walls, the gleaming black floors. From the furniture and placement, it looks like Lucifer is turning the building into a club. Electricians stand on ladders, installing track lighting.

“Lucifer!” Amenadiel calls.

One of the electricians yelps with surprise and teeters on his perch a moment before righting himself.

“Fuck off!” he shouts down at Amenadiel, clutching the sides of the ladder while he regains his breath. Amenadiel inhales to apologize but apprehension prickles along his skin. He seizes time at the same time he spins and grabs Mazikeen’s arm, stopping her knife just shy of his ribs.

He shoves her back, and the demon lithely hops into a crouch.

“Where is Lucifer?” Amenadiel demands.

“What business is it of yours?”

“Mazikeen, enough,” Lucifer calls, and they both look over to where he’s descending the staircase. His hair is gelled and slicked back, but slightly disheveled, as if it’s been hastily finger-combed. His eyes are rimmed in kohl, and the dark suit he wears is clearly tailored to him. There’s lipstick smeared along his jaw.

He flicks his fingers at the demon, dismissing her, and Maizkeen sniffs her disapproval but disappears back into shadows. 

“Well, brother, what has you darkening my door?” He smiles, and Amenadiel thinks it’s a play on the establishment’s name. 

“I need money. Or a place to stay,” Amenadiel says flatly.

Lucifer’s eyebrows creep up in surprise.

“Why?” he asks. “Go home, brother. There’s no need for you to stay here.”

“I CAN’T go home,” Amenadiel snaps, anger boiling out of him. “Not until you’re back in Hell. Luci, please, go back to Hell. You know it’s where you belong.”

The Devil’s eyes darken.

“I’ll do no such thing,” he says. It’s cold and unyielding, and Amenadiel grits his teeth.

“Then I’m not leaving either,” Amenadiel says. “The least you can do is give me somewhere to stay until you decide to stop being stubborn.”

“Pot, kettle,” Lucifer mutters. “And – the least I can do? Oh, brother, how very untrue. That’s not at all the _least_ I can do.”

Lucifer turns and starts ascending the stairs, and Amenadiel realizes that’s Lucifer’s answer – to do nothing at all for him.

“What do you want?” Amenadiel calls, hating himself for opening this door again.

Lucifer pauses. Makes a show of considering, and then turns and descends until he’s standing face-to-face with Amenadiel.

“Now that you mention it,” Lucifer says, casual and sly. “There are a few trinkets I left below that would really brighten this place up.”

Amenadiel frowns.

“Why not go get them yourself?”

Lucifer’s smile is all teeth. “Because I’m never going back to Hell. I’ve left nothing behind that I need; only a few things that would be nice to have. Just as accommodations on Earth aren’t a thing that you _need._ A fair trade, wouldn’t you say?”

Amenadiel considers his options. 

“Fine,” he says, sighing. “What am I bringing back? I’m not going to bring up any demonic –”

“Nothing like that, brother. I want my books.”

Amenadiel rubs the bridge of his nose. He has a headache. 

“Where will I find them?” he asks.

~*~

Hell buffets at him, hot and filthy and reeking of brimstone. Amenadiel flies through fetid wind, feeling the ash cling to his wings. He slips into the palace as quickly as possible. The obsidian walls rise up around him - blocking the wind, at least, if not the heat and stench. Demons milling around in the entrance hall giggle and flee, calling taunts and lewd suggestions as they exit.

Amenadiel ignores them.

Lucifer had told him where to go, and of course, the Devil’s hoard of personal belongings is kept in the long, dark hallway with an unseen, massive beast. 

“Head in and then fly up and to the left, towards the corner,” Lucifer had told him. “There’s a hidden door up there.”

What Lucifer _hadn’t_ told him is that the behemoth could and would reach for him as he fumbled in the dark, trying to find said hidden door.

Claws grab Amenadiel’s ankle, and the beast whuffles with excitement. A thick, slobbering tongue wraps around him and teeth press into his leg. Amenadiel kicks and slices with his wings, taking a fair number of swipes and chomps and scratches in return.

Eventually, he manages to send the creature back. It whines with unhappiness and Amenadiel pants, sweating and bleeding and deeply annoyed. 

He finds the edges of the door in the dark, his wings beating to hold him in place, and it’s another few minutes before he works out how to pry it open.

Light spills out immediately, yellow and bright and shocking for the dark blue glow of Hell. Amenadiel blinks against it, momentarily stunned –

\- And suffers for that moment of distraction when the behemoth grabs him again.

~*~

Amenadiel arrives back at Lux, arms heavy with books, covered in bleeding scratches and so furious it’s all he can do not to throw the texts at Lucifer when he sees him. Amenadiel drops them on the bar instead.

Mazikeen takes one look at him and bursts into laughter.

“Ran into Tiny, huh?” she chortles.

Lucifer looks equally amused, though he’s not outright laughing.

“Effective little deterrent, isn’t he?” Lucifer says cheerfully. “Now, let’s see, did you get everything I asked for?”

The Devil picks up book after book, examining them, as if doubting Amenadiel’s capabilities.

“Well, this will do. Mazikeen, take these upstairs. Now then, brother,” Lucifer withdraws a slim paper envelope, emblazoned with a printed logo and handwritten number. “I know you’ll not leave the city, but I’d prefer to have you not quite so underfoot. I’m sure you’ll find the accommodations… suitable. You may want to go have a shower. The venom in those scratches will probably start to sting soon.”

It’s already stinging. Amenadiel doesn’t say this. He grabs the envelope from Lucifer’s fingers, too frustrated to say any of the scathing things running through his head.

Walking out of Lux, he scrutinizes the paper. The emblem says “Motel 6,” – (Amenadiel wonders about that ranking – are motels 1-5 better or worse?) - and has an address printed under it. The written numbers are likely a room number.

It takes him a moment to work out how the key card reader works, but at last, Amenadiel steps into his room and closes the door. 

It’s not an impressive space. There’s a bed, a stained carpet, a patina of old cigarette smoke on the ceiling. Compared to Hell, it’s an oasis, but Amenadiel feels the intended slight nonetheless.

The bathroom is small and he bangs his elbows twice as he strips out of his robes and gets into the shower.

Amenadiel scrubs at the burning scratches and bites littering his skin. The soap barely creates a lather. He has to duck his head to stand under the spray. A litany of small irritations that are exacerbated by his fatigue and situation.

When he at last towels off and climbs into bed, Amenadiel sleeps deeply.

~*~

In the morning, he wakes to someone knocking on his door. Amenadiel wraps himself in the sheet and shuffles over to answer. His wounds have healed but not his temperament.

“Yes?” he asks. The employee squints back at him in impatience.

“Checkout was at 10 o’clock, sir. You need to pay for another night if you’re staying.”

Amenadiel closes his eyes and sighs.

~*~

Lucifer is mid-orgy when Amenadiel arrives at Lux. He and Mazikeen are sharing a human; the demon writhing, seated on the man’s face, as Lucifer thrusts into him. Other humans are sprawled around the suite in various states of dress and coitus.

Lucifer and Mazikeen both let loose disgruntled growls when Amenadiel seizes time.

Lucifer withdraws himself, but the demon continues to wriggle her hips, chasing after her pleasure.

“Amenadiel, really now, this is not –” Lucifer starts, and Amenadiel cuts him off.

“You told me you would give me a place to stay.”

Lucifer wraps himself in a robe, belting it at the middle.

“And I did,” Lucifer answers easily.

Amenadiel’s fists clench.

“Luci, you _know _that wasn’t what I meant!”

“Ah, but it’s what you _agreed_ to,” the Devil returns. He smiles. “And I am, after all, a man of my word.”

“What I need,” Amenadiel grits out. “Is someplace to stay for the duration of your dalliance on Earth.”

“Why, brother, you seem _awfully_ sure that dear old Dad isn’t going to pop down and swat me back to Hell. Care to share with the class?”

Lucifer fishes in the pockets of the robe, withdrawing cigarettes, a lighter. He strikes a flame and draws smoke into his lungs, letting it out slowly as he eyes Amenadiel. 

Amenadiel shifts on his feet, feeling trapped.

“I cannot know our Father’s will,” Amenadiel says. “But I know my duty. And you know this can’t last, Lucifer.”

“I know that you made a deal to leave me be,” Lucifer says. “And if you’re waiting for me to get bored of Earth and go back to Hell, you’re going to be waiting for a very, very long time, Amenadiel.”

Mazikeen grunts and rolls her hips harder. It’s obscene and upsetting.

“Tell you what,” Lucifer says. “I’ve bought a few homes in the area. I’ll give one to you, if you like. A permanent accommodation. But, well, I do have a few more things I left below.”

“I’m not going to go be a chewtoy for your behemoth again, Luci.”

Lucifer shrugs.

“Okay,” he says simply. “Well, if there’s nothing else, off you pop.”

This must be revenge, Amenadiel thinks, for all the times that Amenadiel had held all the cards. There’s a sadistic glint in Lucifer’s eyes. He’s very much enjoying himself.

It galls enormously.

“What objects?” Amenadiel asks.

“Hmmm. It’s a number of things. I expect it will be, oh, perhaps two or three trips.”

Lucifer pauses, as if he expects Amenadiel to object, but Amenadiel holds his tongue. He is not in a position to negotiate and they’re both well aware of it.

“Wonderful,” Lucifer says, clapping his hands. 

~*~

It feels a bit like giving penance, Amenadiel tries to convince himself, punching the beast in the nose to loosen its hold on his wing. The beast yelps and growls and pounces back, angrier than before.

When Amenadiel finally makes it into the hidden door, he’s tempted to load his arms with as much of his list as he can carry, but he knows there’s still the trip back out. He picks his way through the enormous sprawl of curated objects. Most he recognizes and remembers Lucifer taking back with him – several more that he doesn’t recall at all. It takes time to find the specific objects on Lucifer’s list. Dimly, he’s grateful that Lucifer hadn’t demanded the lot. It would have taken hundreds of trips to bring this all back Earthside.

Not that it’s a task Amenadiel welcomes, even truncated as it is. But it’s penance, Amenadiel tells himself. Penance. Because surely that must be the reason for making Amenadiel do this. It isn’t as though Lucifer can’t fly down here himself and take these things, despite his grand declarations. The point, therefore, _must be_ to make Amenadiel suffer.

Lucifer is, after all, the king of Hell. Torture is in his nature.

Amenadiel is finding he doesn’t much care for being a subject.

~*~

Amenadiel drops the spoils of his next trip off in the penthouse. A statue of a horse, more manuscripts, a leather satchel of antiquated tools, an old pistol, bronzed animal horns. Other than the books, Amenadiel can discern no purpose for any of it. He heaps it on the table by the couch where Lucifer lays sprawled, dozing and as unconcerned as a fattened house cat. Amenadiel has been in Hell far longer than he wanted to be, and hours have passed on Earth. The humans have departed and the sun has fully set.

The clatter of the objects dropping stirs Lucifer.

Lucifer yawns, stretching, and rolls lazily onto his side to regard the loot.

“Ah, good,” Lucifer says. He picks up the horns and turns them over in his hands.

Amenadiel stomps over to the bowl of fruit perched on the counter and takes an apple, biting into it viciously. He’s hungry and irritable. 

“Help yourself,” Lucifer says wryly.

“There has to be a trick, right?” Amenadiel says. “For getting past it. No way would you tolerate that fight every time you went to your hoard.”

Lucifer laughs.

“I told you!” he chortles, and Mazikeen slinks out of the dark hallway and into the light. 

“You said it’d take him three trips. This was only two.”

“Ah, perhaps you’re right,” Lucifer agrees easily.

“Well?” Amenadiel demands.

“Well what?”

“What is the trick!”

“Ah,” Lucifer scratches his stubbly jaw. “Hmmm. Some of the souls that fall take a while to find their doors. Usually the demons will see to them if they’re lingering too long, or I will, but behemoths – well, let’s just say they’re a bit _enthusiastic_ about those particular toys.”

Amenadiel’s stomach turns. He doesn’t even _like_ humans, but this is a perversion.

“Luci, human souls aren’t _toys_.”

“Oh relax. Getting eaten is… more an inconvenience, really. It’s not like the behemoths can destroy a soul.” He tilts his head and narrows his eyes, considering his words. He nods dismissively.

Amenadiel sets the apple down on the counter, appetite gone.

“Do you have a shower?” he asks. Lucifer waves a hand down the hallway, already picking up another object off the table for examination.

Amenadiel walks past the demon. Her fingers dart out and pluck at his robe, and he turns a frosty look on her.

“Nice dress,” she tells him. “The bullet holes really add flair.”

He doesn’t answer, pulling his tunic from her grip and proceeding down towards the bathroom. He strips off his robes and lays them on the sink. Between being shot by a human and assaulted by a behemoth, they are seriously starting to show wear. He’s had no opportunity to mend or replace them.

Replace.

He scowls.

He can’t just pop back up to the Silver City and get more. He rests his hand on the soft cloth. He’ll need to get more clothes, tools to repair the rips and holes, food, certainly…

Amenadiel steps into the shower and turns on the water. The water pressure is _infinitely _better than what he’d experienced in the sixth motel. He groans and leans back. The warm water stings in his scratches, but he knows that it’ll feel better once the filth of the beast’s claws is washed away.

He shifts under the spray, and something firm but yielding touches his hip. He opens his eyes again.

There’s a dildo stuck to the shower wall.

“Oh come on,” he complains, stepping further away from it.

~*~

It’s an effort to find a stray soul. Hell, for all its vastness and multitudes, is a place of isolation. Souls fall and find their doors sooner or later, and once inside…

Well.

Amenadiel doesn’t think he’s ever heard of a soul finding their way back from damnation. 

It’s a matter of days before he finds a group of demons clawing at the insubstantial flesh of an elderly woman. Her screams warble and distort in the air, but Amenadiel does at last locate her.

The soul is weeping, bleeding, visibly confused. The demons turn snarling glares on Amenadiel at his interruption.

He bristles his wings, creating a bladed edge around him as he approaches. 

“Do you even know what you’re doing, angel?” the bolder of the group asks him.

“Back away,” Amenadiel says. He will not justify himself to these creatures. The demon shrugs, leonine and unconcerned, and with a gesture, she corrals the group around her and departs.

The soul sinks to her knees, gibbering and crying.

“Praise God,” she says. “Praise God for His forgiveness. Thank you, angel, thank you, thank you.”

Amenadiel grasps her shoulder in his hand. Souls aren’t flesh. His fingers sink slightly in the shape that represents her, but his grip is firm enough to lift her with him.

Amenadiel wonders what she had done, in life, to deserve Hell. Her tear-stained face is wrinkled with lines that were better suited for laughter. Was she a murderer, perhaps? A rapist? There’s no way to know. Amenadiel has faith that she belongs here, and he doesn’t hesitate or give her further thought, tightening his hand when she squirms.

When he arrives with her in the darkened hallway, Amenadiel tosses her in, wincing only a little at the gleeful, wet sounds the behemoth makes when it pounces on her.

Amenadiel has to get Lucifer back to Hell. 

He will do whatever it takes to make it happen.

~*~

The statue is the last thing on Lucifer’s ridiculous list, and an absurd struggle to take with him.

It’s an exhausting effort to haul the thing out of the palace and fly it up from Hell. Its weight is disproportionate to its size, and he boggles at it still when he at last sets it down on the floor of the penthouse. Amenadiel is a little surprised that the marble flooring doesn’t crack beneath it.

Lucifer looks up from tapping chiseled letters into a massive block of yellowed clay. Amenadiel, still panting, skims the text Lucifer is carving – erotic poetry, _graphic_ erotic poetry – and rolls his eyes. Lucifer sets down his tools and dusts his hands, a spring in his step as he regards the retrieved statue.

“Why,” Amenadiel asks, “Does this ugly statue _weigh_ so much?” His muscles actually ache from the effort of flying with it.

“Yes, it _is_ an ugly little thing, isn’t it?” Lucifer says fondly. He pours himself a scotch and sips it, circling the statue, eyeing it from every angle. He grins at Amenadiel. “But, now, they do say it’s what’s _inside_ that counts.”

Amenadiel narrows his eyes suspiciously.

“What’s inside it, Luci?”

Lucifer pats the statue’s ugly head.

“A prototype, of sorts. I’d thought Hell could be made a bit cheerier with the addition of a few stars.” He sniffs. “I could never really _quite_ get it to work – the atmosphere, you know. Still. Never know when something incredibly dense will come in handy. Speaking of, my thanks,” He says to Amenadiel, smiling broadly and toasting him with his glass.

Amenadiel glares.

He’s exhausted; aching, depleted. Lucifer, with his immaculate suit and shit-eating grin, is stirring a strong impulse for violence.

And it’s not a solution to this problem. Amenadiel thinks a fight with Lucifer will just get him to dig his heels in harder.

“I’ve upheld my end of the bargain,” Amenadiel says, struggling to keep his voice level. 

“Ah, yes, of course,” Lucifer says, as if the entire point of this had slipped his mind.

He slips a hand into his pocket and withdraws a set of keys – a _real_ set, made of metal.

He holds them out to Amenadiel, and Amenadiel feels something dangerously akin to despair when he takes them.

~*~

The house…

Well, it’s clearly something Lucifer had bought for himself and, as such, it’s expansive and opulent. There’s a wide, glass balcony that Amenadiel knows will frame the sunset, when it happens. The furniture is expensive, if impersonal. The walls are dotted here and there with framed paintings of abstract and subtly erotic art. 

There are sealed soaps and shampoos in the bathroom. Towels and linens that are crisp and pristine, obviously new. Amenadiel doubts Lucifer has ever set foot in this house. It’s an object the Devil bought on a whim.

Amenadiel showers, washing off the filth of Hell, but doesn’t quite feel clean no matter how long he stays under the spray.

~*~

The closets and bureau are bare of clothes. There’s a spare change of sheets and towels in the linen closet; some toiletries in the cupboard in the bathroom. 

The pantry is empty. The refrigerator is empty. The bowl of fruit on the counter is decorative.

Amenadiel sighs with annoyance.

He flies back to the building across from Lux and, for a while, merely observes. People line up along the sidewalk, queued for entrance into the building. Most are young, beautiful. The ones that trickle out are loose-limbed with satisfaction or intoxication, or both. Even here, across the street, Amenadiel can feel the faint pulse of Lucifer’s power. He wonders if the humans are drawn to it at some level. The club certainly seems popular, for all that it didn’t exist two days ago.

Lucifer clearly isn’t going anywhere for the foreseeable future.

A bit of stealthy flying gets him into the penthouse. Lucifer has torn down the wall separating the bedroom from the rest of the suite and replaced it with the chiseled stone he'd been working on. A bar has been installed, the surface still dusted with drywall powder. The brightly lit shelves behind it are mostly empty but Amenadiel doubts they’ll stay that way for long. A new piano gleams in front of the couches and tables, and on the wall beside the elevator, Lucifer has flocked the space with bookshelf after bookshelf. The tokens and trinkets and books that Amenadiel had retrieved from Hell decorate them haphazardly.

Amenadiel thins his lips in irritation, walking past the display and down the hallway past Lucifer’s bed. A ridiculously large bathroom lies to the left; an equally ridiculously large closet to the right. Amenadiel walks past them without paying them much attention. At the end of the short hallway, the space opens into a kitchen.

Amenadiel makes himself a sandwich.

As he sits at Lucifer’s kitchen island, chewing, annoyed by the near-Heavenly quality of the food, he contemplates what deterrents he could enact to encourage Lucifer to stop setting down roots. Salt in his liquor bottles, maybe? Should he cut the piano wires? Short-sheet the bed?

All of it is petty, and Amenadiel knows it will only make Lucifer _that much more determined_ to stay, spurred on by spite when Lucifer’s bravado inevitably falters and he realizes what a colossal mistake he’s making. 

So no, Amenadiel can’t do any of that. 

Perhaps the best thing to do is give Lucifer a bit of time. Let him glut himself with revelry and debasement. Let him get it all out of his system, and let boredom give Lucifer time to actually _think_ about what he’s doing. 

Amenadiel doesn’t like the plan, but it’s the best one he has.

He finishes his meal, dusting crumbs from his fingers and onto the countertop. 

Lucifer has a narrower build than himself. Amenadiel doubts any of Lucifer’s tailored suits will fit him, but he’s sure there will be _something_ in Lucifer’s closet that he can wear. 

The room where Lucifer is storing his clothes was possibly meant to be a guestroom. There are only a few dozen suits hanging up but there is room to expand the selection. Amenadiel has no doubt that Lucifer intends to do just that. 

He browses through the hanging shirts and jackets. The materials are soft and pleasant to the touch, but he can tell without even trying them on that his shoulders will be too big. A massive bureau occupies most of the far wall, and Amenadiel tries that next, thinking that Lucifer may have more casual (loose-fitting) clothing folded and tucked away.

He opens the doors.

And stares.

And _stares_.

For long seconds, the image refuses to make any sort of sense. Why, he thought, would Lucifer buy an obscene thing like this? Was it some sort of modern art? 

But he can feel the pulse of divinity still emanating from the severed wings, and there is no mistaking what they are.

His eyes trail up the long, white feathers to the ragged fleshy stumps left where the wings had connected to Lucifer’s back. The blood is dry but the exposed muscles remain a vibrant red. Even separated, they are divine; they won’t corrupt or rot. 

Amenadiel’s hands tremble around the doors of the cabinet.

He feels _sick._

“Getting an eyeful, angel?” Mazikeen asks and, faintly, Amenadiel is aware that he’d heard her approach. Shock and horror have dulled him and he doesn’t turn around to face her.

“This is _abomination_,” he rasps.

Mazikeen is uncharacteristically quiet in response. She says nothing to Amenadiel when he at last tears his eyes away from the grotesque display and stumbles past her, out of the closet, and then out of the penthouse.

He flies away without even slowing time, too distraught to care about being observed.

~*~

The enormity of what Lucifer has done takes a few hours to really sink in.

The mutilation is more than just an unthinkable blasphemy. Lucifer has rendered himself _physically_ _unable_ to fly back to Hell. It has hammered home, in a way that Lucifer’s speeches simply hadn’t, that this is not a whim. 

Lucifer has thrown his gauntlet down at God’s feet. This is not something Amenadiel will be able to brush under the rug.

Lucifer has _rebelled_.

~*~

On the following day, Amenadiel thinks – But, surely, the wings can be reattached. They aren’t _destroyed_, after all. They’re divine, and they’re Lucifer’s. 

It’s all been a gesture. More of Lucifer being stubborn, more of him acting out – albeit in far more painful and blasphemous a direction than Amenadiel had thought his brother capable of.

He flies back to the penthouse. Lucifer, dozing in his large bed, bracketed by human women, stirs and groans when Amenadiel walks in. Amenadiel bypasses him, heading straight for the closet.

And yet, when he yanks open the wardrobe doors, the wings are gone, replaced with neatly folded stacks and rows of undershirts, boxers, and dress socks.

Amenadiel stares dumbly, and turns when he hears Lucifer’s footsteps padding down the hall.

The Devil leans against the doorway, scratching his chest and giving Amenadiel a bored look.

“Well you didn’t think I’d leave them here, did you?” he asks, yawning. “Can’t have you getting ideas with bloody superglue and a can-do attitude. It’s done, Amenadiel. I’m not going back to Hell.”

Amenadiel clenches his fists.

Lucifer turns and heads back down the hallway, the black silk of his robe hugged close around his body, and Amenadiel is seized with disgust, wondering what the archangel’s back looks like beneath that fabric. Are there scars? Are there hollow divots left behind where the largest bones connected? Have the spots bled through with the red, pocked skin that Lucifer wears in his truer form?

He leaves the closet and follows Lucifer out into the main part of the penthouse. The bar has been completed. The shelves stocked with bottle after bottle of liquor. He watches Lucifer pull one down and pour a pair of shots. The Devil sets one on the counter in front of Amenadiel, tapping the rim with the base of his glass before tipping the shot back.

Amenadiel drinks the shot. The alcohol burns; the taste is unpleasant. Lucifer either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. He runs hands through his tousled hair, smoothing the beginnings of curls back into order.

“Luci… Hell needs its king,” Amenadiel tries. “God gave you this duty. It must be done.”

Lucifer tilts his head at Amenadiel, then turns his attention back to the bar, withdrawing a bag of fine white powder and a small blade. He sets to work tapping and cutting the powder into long, neat lines.

“You raise a good point, brother,” Lucifer says sarcastically. “Important work, that. Someone really ought to fly down and see to it.”

The Devil bends down and, pressing one nostril closed with his fingers, snorts the line from base to tip in a lengthy inhale. Lucifer rocks his head back when he gets to the end, rubbing his nose. He sighs with pleasure. He opens his eyes and blinks at Amenadiel in mock surprise.

“You’re still here?” Lucifer asks. 

Amenadiel grits his teeth.

“I will not enable this,” he says. “I will not stand between you and Father’s wrath. Hell is _your_ responsibility, Lucifer.”

“Uh-huh,” Lucifer says, blithely unconcerned. “Maze, would you mind seeing my brother out?”

The demon hops over the rail of the mezzanine splitting Lucifer’s collection of books and objects into multiple levels. She lands lightly on her feet, knives already drawn, eagerness brightening her eyes.

Amenadiel spreads his wings, flexing his bladed feathers. 

Lucifer starts preparing a second line of coke as if this fight is less interesting to him; less important. Apart from him.

Amenadiel really could strangle Lucifer. His wings bristle with all of the frustrated tension and fear and anger running through him, and it’s nearly an overwhelming disappointment when Mazikeen smirks and sheathes her blades.

She takes a step back and makes an exaggerated, sweeping gesture with her arms, ushering him to the penthouse balcony. Her sadistic pleasure in denying him even the simple satisfaction of a fight breaks across her face in a wide smile. 

It sparks an idea.

“The demon,” Amenadiel says slowly, “Really should be returned to Hell. I will see to that, at least, since you’ve rendered yourself incapable.”

Lucifer pauses in bending over. He straightens, turning a far more serious glare onto Amenadiel. 

“You’ll do no such thing,” the Devil says flatly.

A nerve struck. Amenadiel suppresses a triumphant smile.

“I agreed to leave _you_ here, Luci.”

“More specifically, you agreed to _leave me be_. Let me pursue my own free will without impediment. Mazikeen is part of that.”

“I fail to see how,” Amenadiel says.

“She’s sworn to me. I brought her here to act in my service. She’s off limits.”

“And I’d _love_ to see you try besides,” Mazikeen hisses.

Amenadiel gives her an unimpressed look. Lucifer releases a blustering sigh, as though annoyed by this whole endeavor.

“How about a bit of extra grease for those stubborn wheels of yours, hmm?” Lucifer says. “What do you desire, Amenadiel? I mean, other than the obvious.”

“I want you to take your wings back.”

“I said _other_ than the obvious,” Lucifer says, rolling his eyes. “And I’m not going back to Hell. How about a car? Money? An invite to the next orgy?” 

Amenadiel narrows his eyes.

“How about a blank check,” Amenadiel says, dry and cutting and calculating. “To be cashed at a time of my choosing.”

Lucifer smiles at him like a feral animal at a buffet.

“Deal,” the Devil says.

That was too easy, Amenadiel thinks, apprehension taking away his pleasure at getting an upper hand.

Lucifer strides to the bookcases, opening a decorative box that Amenadiel had retrieved from Hell and withdrawing something slender and flat, perhaps the length of his hand, and a pen.

A checkbook.

“That isn’t what I meant, Luci!” Amenadiel shouts, temper fraying further as Lucifer scribbles on the paper and tears it from the book. “And how do you even have one of those anyway? Don’t you need to have…” What was the word? “A birth certificate, proof of identity?”

Lucifer hands the slip to Amenadiel, and the name printed clearly in the top left corner is: Lucifer Morningstar

Followed by the address for Lux.

“A rather talented forger owed me a favor,” Lucifer says. “My documents are in order. Quite handy, that. Turns out you need all _kinds_ of human things to legitimize a night club. Who knew? Seems to me a proper den of iniquity shouldn’t need all of that fuss, but then there’s construction permits to file for, and staff to hire, and W-2s to issue, and – well.”

The Devil grins. “I take the blame for taxes often enough. Seems only fair I should start paying them.”

Amenadiel clenches his hand, wrinkling the paper. It’s badly tempting to rip the thing to shreds, but while it’s undeniably an insult, it’s also an advantage. 

He shoves the check into an inner pocket. He’ll figure out how to use it later.

“I believe you were leaving,” Mazikeen prods, her smugness making Amenadiel see red.

He inhales and exhales slowly, keeping his head raised as he walks past them and out onto the balcony.

He will have to come up with a different plan.

~*~

Lucifer’s words eat at him.

There is work that needs to be done in Hell. Lucifer will not be doing it.

Amenadiel prowls through the home Lucifer had given him, pacing and thinking, debating his next course of action.

If he checks on Hell, is he letting Lucifer win? Is he taking up Lucifer’s punishment?

Perhaps.

Or perhaps, maintaining the Devil’s work below will simply buy Amenadiel more time to fix his mistake. No one from the Silver City seems to have noticed anything as amiss, yet. No angels have descended, ready to make war on Earth in defiance of God’s will. God Himself has said nothing.

Perhaps Amenadiel can just… pop in. Patrol the gates, make sure everything in Hell is running smoothly, and then come back upstairs and continue his campaign to get the Devil back where he belongs. Just this once. Just to keep things in balance.

He doesn’t like it.

But he spreads his wings and flies to Hell anyway.

~*~

Hell is a vast and desolate place. A dark twin of Heaven; ever-expanding, consuming in its miasma of despair and suffering.

Amenadiel flies through the falling ash, diligently checking the membrane separating Hell from Earth. He wonders if Lucifer has a simpler way of doing this? This is no short task. Even at speed, it will take months to view it all.

Then, there are the sprawling cities below. The demons and the wayward souls, the monstrous beasts that roam Hell’s landscape, strange and twisted and unfit for Earth. How does Lucifer keep them in check? When are the scuffles and atrocities being committed by demonic hands worthy of intervention, and when is it simply business as usual? Are the beasts allowed within the labyrinth of loop doors?

Amenadiel can only judge and act to the best of his ability. It isn’t as though there are instructions.

He sets to work.

~*~

Later, months later, he returns to Earth. He gasps in the sweet, brimstone-free air – the cool breeze on his skin, the sunlight, the absence of screaming…

And he burns with a new understanding.

~*~

Barely any time has passed on Earth at all. It feels _wrong_, somehow. 

Amenadiel lingers in the shower for a long while, guzzling mouthfuls of clean, cool water; letting the soothing stream wash away the stink of Hell. He doesn’t stay as long as he would like, knowing he has other things to see to. 

He needs to check on Lucifer - but first, he is desperately hungry. What food there is in Hell he wouldn’t lower himself to eat. Amenadiel takes himself to an island, far away from Los Angeles, and pulls succulent fruits down from the trees. Their juices run down his chin, down his tunic, down his parched and aching throat.

He feasts.

When his stomach feels heavy, Amenadiel stops, even as the hunger continues to claw at him. A side-effect of Hell, Amenadiel thinks, and he hopes that time will make the feeling fade.

He licks his sticky fingers

Bullet holes, ash, ichor, and fruit juice – his robes were starting to veer towards unsalvageable. He will need clean clothes; _human_ clothes. 

He considers again the crumpled check in his pocket. 

Now, he supposes, is as good of a time as any to figure out how to turn it into money. 

~*~

Amenadiel thinks he’s struck a blow to Lucifer’s wealth, right up until he flies back to the penthouse and is met with Lucifer’s raised eyebrow.

“Only a million dollars? Really? I was sure you’d, you know,” he waves a hand at Amenadiel. “Try and impoverish me to get me to move along. I had all sorts of backup plans, and I didn’t even need them.”

Amenadiel frowns.

“It’s _twice_ the amount that was placed against Aiden Scott. I thought it a considerable sum.”

Lucifer gives him a condescending look. He sniffs and pours himself another scotch.

“Why do you smell like Hell?” Mazikeen asks. The demon leans forward in her perch at the bar. She gives Amenadiel an appraising look, smirking like she knows the answer already.

Lucifer laughs into his glass.

Something… dark, and deep, and dangerous unfurls through Amenadiel.

He looks at Lucifer, seeing him for all that he is – his selfishness, his shortsightedness. His disobedience and the offense he offers to God. Amenadiel knows that Lucifer is evil, that it is his nature, but he thinks this may be the first time he has truly _hated_ Lucifer.

Amenadiel leaves before he does something he’ll regret.

~*~

Months pass on Earth. Amenadiel has – with extreme reluctance – started filling the home with objects that worryingly speak of a longer stay. Multiple changes of clothes, for those occasions when he mingles with humans. A stocked pantry. Bubble bath.

He watches Lucifer from a distance as much as he can. Lucifer has thrown himself into debauchery with such a lack of restraint or dignity that Amenadiel is overwhelmed with disgust.

Amenadiel has gone back to Hell twice more. He patrols the gates, herds wayward souls towards the palace and the loitering groups of demons, drags the larger beasts away from the loop doors and slaughters the smaller ones.

It’s grotesque and draining work, and it is always a relief to return to Earth when he completes his self-appointed list of tasks.

Heaven remains silent. God remains silent.

~*~

Once, Amenadiel tries to approach the staff at Lux, thinking to turn the humans close to the Devil against him. The woman that Amenadiel takes to be the manager of the bar is young, beautiful. Lucifer’s type.

“He’s the _actual_ Devil,” Amenadiel tries to explain to her, but she stares back at him with blank disinterest. 

“He pays twice what I got at my last job,” she tells him. “And he’s a good boss besides.”

When Amenadiel tries to follow her to her car to continue his attempt at reason, she maces him in the face.

So, that’s a non-starter.

~*~

Amenadiel spends his days on Earth oscillating between boredom, anger, and dread. Every moment he’s here, he’s constantly aware of the imminent – and yet unrealized - disaster of an unattended Hell; an Earth corrupted by Lucifer’s presence. 

He misses the Silver City.

He misses his home, and the peace of the azure lakes, and the sweeping beauty of the libraries. He misses the warm, fragrant air from the pieces of Heaven created by chefs and gluttons – each edible creation they craft sublime and perfect in their paradises.

He has forgotten what page he was on in the book he was reading.

Amenadiel watches television, trying to learn everything he needs to know to blend in more effectively. He suspects, as months pass and every interaction with Lucifer is met with snide dismissal, that the key to victory lies in _human_ interference.

If he can just figure out _how._

Amenadiel consumes pop culture of angels and Satan. With regards to angels, humans have written myths depicting angels that fall and lose their wings, or that must earn their wings to become proper angels, or that spend their entire existences shadowing specific humans to protect them. It's nonsense, and he wonders how any of these beliefs came to be. 

With regard to Lucifer - the pendulum swings from movie to movie on whether the Devil is presented as a base beast, barely capable of communicating, or a sophisticated monster, or a joke – a caricature intended to delight instead of frighten.

It’s pure human irreverence and blasphemy, and proof that they have forgotten the reality of the divine.

But, perhaps, not all of them, Amenadiel thinks. He considers some of the common themes in the ways the humans imagine Lucifer can be defeated.

~*~

Rome is vastly different from Los Angeles.

Amenadiel finds the so-called Holy City. He speaks to men of the cloth, to an investigative unit, telling them that Lucifer resides in Los Angeles. Amenadiel toes the line of his duty – he doesn’t offer any proof of divinity, but he tells them stories of Lucifer’s powers, presenting them as if seeing them from a human perspective. 

When Amenadiel leaves, he is unsure whether any of them believed him. Certainly, none of them seem to have a way to force Lucifer below, as the priests did in the movies he’s watched. But, then, Amenadiel had known it was a long-shot.

At best, perhaps they will send priests to Los Angeles to get underfoot. Few things annoy Lucifer quite so much as those who have pledged themselves to God. It will be a small irritation, but small irritations have a way of adding up.

Amenadiel isn’t wholly satisfied when he leaves Rome, but it still feels like he’s finally doing _something _right.

~*~

The next time Amenadiel returns from Hell, he finds the demon in his living room.

He is filthy, tired, and angry at the burden of patrolling the gates. He is in no mood for whatever snide mockery she is no doubt bringing him.

“Get out,” he says. 

There is blood caked under Amenadiel’s fingernails. He doesn’t want to think about how it got there.

To his surprise, Mazikeen pushes herself out of the chair, spinning her knives idly as seems to be her habit, and saunters to the front door. She gives Amenadiel a lingering look but doesn’t offer any comment, leaving and actually closing the door behind herself.

It’s unsettling.

But perhaps that was the point.

~*~

Time, irritatingly, moves forward. Months become a year. A year becomes two, three, and while Amenadiel watches Lucifer carefully, the Devil shows no signs of slowing down or growing bored.

It is deeply frustrating, and the resentment Amenadiel harbors for Lucifer grows every time Amenadiel returns to Hell.

Repeated exposure and a growing familiarity have done nothing to improve the infernal realm. Every time Amenadiel starts his rounds, his mind is consumed with counting down the moments until he can return to Earth.

Hell is a punishment. For Amenadiel, it is self-imposed; a burden his has shouldered to pay for the mistakes he’s made with Lucifer.

For Lucifer, it is a punishment _far_ more deserved. 

Amenadiel returns from Hell. He bathes, eats, breathes until his lungs no longer feel lined with ash. And then he goes to Lux, to watch Lucifer slut his way through Los Angeles, or render himself incompetent with drugs and booze. He disrespects his own divine flesh at every turn. The mechanical bull breaks – Lucifer’s fault, Amenadiel gleans later – and is replaced with a mud wrestling pit, which in turn is replaced a larger dance floor. Lucifer spends his days and nights indulging every silly human sexual whim that crosses his path, bearing body paint one night, masks and costumes the next. He wears googly eyes stuck low on his stomach, or a skimpy maid outfit, or a pair of plastic devil horns perched on his head... On and on it goes. Nothing seems to be off-limits. Lucifer blasphemes with a casualness that borders on malice.

Sometimes, Amenadiel sees Lucifer’s naked back. On this occasion, a glimpse while the Devil ruts with a woman in the jacuzzi he’s added to his balcony. The scars smear down the archangel’s shoulder blades, ugly and large, a blatant affront to God.

God, who is still silent as the third year becomes the fourth. 

Surely, Amenadiel’s siblings must have noticed his absence by now, and yet none of them have descended to search for him, or question him. It stings, a bit, because what if Amenadiel had actually needed their help? 

He spends a few months searching for Lucifer’s wings, hoping they’re still in Los Angeles and that Lucifer hasn’t shipped them to some far corner of the world out of spite. It takes patience and effort and luck to finally get a look at the meticulous records Mazikeen makes of his expenditures, and even more time to go through the list of properties and off-shore holdings and storage facilities listed, until at last, he locates the shipping container where Lucifer has stashed his severed wings. The ward painted on the side explains why he couldn’t feel their divine power bleeding through. It was a clever attempt to keep them hidden, but Lucifer has underestimated Amenadiel’s resolve.

It takes Amenadiel a bit of time to figure out the hidden compartment but, when he does and the severed wings are revealed, Amenadiel feels a sick mix of triumph and revulsion. 

He seals everything up before he leaves, tucking the knowledge of their location away. That Lucifer has kept them close, made such an effort to hide them and keep them safe, hasn’t _destroyed _them – it tells Amenadiel quite a lot about Lucifer’s attachment to his wings. 

If Amenadiel can just figure out how to make Lucifer reclaim them…

He knows he’ll have to come at it in a circuitous way. Lucifer is far too stubborn to do something simply because it makes sense or because Amenadiel has asked for it. 

No, Amenadiel will have to leverage a more subtle persuasion.

It is a thought that stays in the back of his head, waiting for the right opportunity.

~*~

He watches humans drift in and out of Lucifer’s circle. Deal after deal after deal is made, but it doesn’t seem to Amenadiel that Lucifer is making any long-term connections with any of them. That, he knows, is a blessing he cannot take for granted. He worries for a time when a young, beautiful singer joins Lucifer for duets for several weeks in a row. But Delilah, too, drifts away – finding her fortune though a deal made with the Devil.

Amenadiel has started having favorite places in Los Angeles to sit and think. Favorite restaurants, a local coffee shop, a farmer’s market that he frequents on the weekends.

It sits uneasily with him. He does not _want_ to get used to being here. He doesn’t _belong_ here. _Lucifer_ doesn’t belong here.

Amenadiel resists settling into a routine. He resists becoming complacent with this arrangement. He will not assume Lucifer’s tasks in Hell indefinitely. He refuses.

Because something, sooner or later, will have to give. 

~*~

Amenadiel has started _hoping_ his siblings notice something is wrong. It’s a blasphemous thought, kept tucked into the darker corners of his mind. Fighting on Earth is expressly against Father’s demands.

And yet…

And _yet_, watching Lucifer glut himself on pleasure after pleasure, Amenadiel’s patience and restraint wear thin.

Amenadiel patrols Hell.

He returns to Earth. He bathes. He eats. 

He looks up from his wine, wide-eyed with surprise, at feeling a pulse of divine power echo through the air.

He flies to Lux and, when he finds Lucifer missing, starts searching for those faint traces of power fading through the air, until he finds himself in a studio in downtown Los Angeles. 

Suspended in time, a balding man slouches against the wall, bleeding, wide-eyed with shock and horror. 

Lucifer kneels beside a prone woman. The ground is covered in shattered glass and his hand presses to her shoulder. Blood wells from a wound covered by his fingers.

“Amenadiel,” Lucifer greets, almost casually.

“Lucifer… what did you _do_?”

The Devil sniffs. Resettles his fingers and shifts back on his heels.

“Barely anything,” he says. “Just… gave a tiny bit of a helping hand keeping her anchored here. Nothing, really.”

Amenadiel stares at Lucifer. Lucifer meets his eyes briefly, and the Devil looks away first.

Amenadiel leaves, mind roiling with concerns.

For three days, Lucifer lingers in the hospital, watching over the detective, charming the nurses into letting him stay past visiting hours.

Perhaps, Amenadiel thinks, it is part of a deal. Perhaps, Lucifer is responsible for her injuries and seeks only to ensure he hasn’t inadvertently killed a mortal. It would be a sin if he had; a crime that even Lucifer, even in his rebellion, should balk at committing. And maybe _this_ is why he’d exerted divine power to hold her soul in place.

At least, Amenadiel _hopes_ these are the reasons.

~*~

Later, he confronts Lucifer. Amenadiel tells him that he would love a war, and part of him… part of him isn’t lying.

A war. Here. It would send Lucifer back to the pit where he belongs, and witnessing it would remind these presumptuous mortals that God is real; that He is owed their respect and love and obedience.

He sees Lucifer with the woman again, and some of his theories about Lucifer’s influence dissipate. He sees the spring in Lucifer’s step, his smile, a renewed joie de vivre that Amenadiel hadn’t even realized had been starting to fade. Lucifer _had_ been getting bored, he realizes, and this woman – she’s throwing a wrench into Amenadiel’s plans. 

“I’m here with an offer,” Amenadiel says, slipping into the penthouse the following morning.

“Really?” Lucifer says. He’s mussed from sleep but his attention speaks of genuine interest.

“Go back to Hell, Lucifer, and I will speak to Father.”

It’s not a small offer. Lucifer must know that, and yet, he dismisses it as if it were nothing.

“You’re scared, aren’t you?” the Devil mocks. “That if I don’t go back to Hell, you’re gonna have to take over.”

“Oh, that would never happen,” Amenadiel answers, almost smiling at the absurdity of the statement. 

“Oh, no, no,” Lucifer scoffs. “I mean, it’s not like God sent his favorite son to reign over Hell before, is it? Oh, wait, sorry,” he says bitingly. “Forgot.” A glimpse of genuine anger in Lucifer’s dark eyes, as if he thinks his punishment is unjust. “So you can take your ultimatum and shove it up your feathered hole.”

He walks past Amenadiel and sits on his leather couch, nursing a drink and acting as if everything were still the same. 

Amenadiel frowns.

“You can’t see it yet, can you?” he asks.

“What’s that?”

“You saved a human life, Luci. And not for any selfish reasons. No, you did it simply because you _cared_ about the detective.”

He thinks, perhaps, that Lucifer will disagree with him. That maybe he’s wrong. But Lucifer scoffs a laugh, looking away, and Amenadiel knows he’s right.

“Your time here on Earth,” Amenadiel says. “Is _affecting_ you, dear brother – you’re _changing_.”

He expects the statement to disgust Lucifer – Lucifer, who has insisted on being his own person so loudly and unwisely that it ended with him being thrown to Hell.

But Lucifer doesn’t even bat an eye.

“My life _is _change. The same thing over and over – that’s _your _boring motto.”

“True. But usually you’re the one controlling the change. This time, you’re _not_.”

Lucifer’s features harden. Amenadiel has his attention.

“Now does that scare you?” Amenadiel continues. “Because it _should_.”

Lucifer pushes himself up out of the armchair and gets in Amenadiel’s face. A reaction that tells Amenadiel plainly that his words have struck a nerve. There’s doubt in Lucifer’s eyes that the Devil tries to hide with a show of irritation.

“You know, I am _tired_ of your dire warnings, all right? So just go rattle your saber in someone else’s face.” Lucifer stalks away, tipping the glass of scotch to drink, even though the liquid moves sluggishly.

Amenadiel can barely suppress a smile. He can see how the thought is already starting to eat at Lucifer. 

“You think about my offer,” Amenadiel says as he steps to the balcony. “When you’ve made a decision, you know how to find me.”

He heads to the beach, wanting to bask in the sunlight as well as his feeling of success. He thinks he’s spoiled Lucifer’s interest in the woman, and with that spark of renewed interest smothered, the boredom Lucifer was feeling will return. The offer Amenadiel gave him – to speak to Father on Lucifer’s behalf… Amenadiel can’t imagine how that _wouldn’t_ be appealing. 

With every excuse to stay removed, surely, Lucifer will agree to go back to Hell.

And things can go back to the way they’re _supposed _to be.

~*~

When he hears Lucifer’s prayer, the smile that breaks across Amenadiel’s face bears the relief of five long years of toil coming to an end.

“I was surprised to hear from you, Lucifer,” Amenadiel says, alighting onto the street. Lucifer stands with Mazikeen, and Amenadiel smiles more, confident he’ll be escorting both of them home in moments.

“Not as surprised as I was,” Lucifer says, hands still clasped in prayer. He shakes his head ruefully. “But I wanted to tell you – you were right.”

Amenadiel leans towards him.

“Hmm. Is that a joke?” He feels buoyant. His wings thrum with excitement.

Lucifer laughs. “No, I wish it were. But, no, you were right, and I was wrong.”

The Devil reaches up and plucks a bullet out of the air. Amenadiel isn’t sure what he’s interrupted but he’s not surprised it involves violence. Violence is often the catalyst for change. And, too, he’s not surprised that the detective that Lucifer has been so enamored with stands nearby. He’d had a feeling she would play a role in this.

“So, you’ll return to Hell?” Amenadiel asks, wanting Lucifer to say it. Wanting to _hear_ it.

“What? No! That’s absurd,” Lucifer laughs, pocketing the bullet and turning to kick one of the humans in the crotch. He turns back to Amenadiel, gleeful and unrepentant. Amenadiel can’t keep the wash of disappointment and anger off his face, and Lucifer visibly revels in it. “No, you’re right that I’ve changed in my time here, and that I have absolutely no control over it. And you know what? That feels positively _thrilling_.”

Lucifer’s eyes gleam, brimming with childish self-satisfaction.

“You asked me here to tell me that?” Amenadiel asks, a warning in his voice that Lucifer entirely ignores.

“No, no, no, I thought I’d _use_ you to remedy a situation I’ve mishandled, and annoy you in the process. Kill two birds with one prayer sort of thing, hmm?”

Amenadiel clenches his hands. Displeasure rolls through him, bitter and intense. Behind Lucifer, he sees the demon wilted with what he’d swear is a similar despair. He files the information away.

“Luci,” Amenadiel breathes. He swallows. “You should have taken my offer.”

Lucifer makes a face of exaggerated surprise.

“Oh,” the Devil says mockingly.

Amenadiel leaves before his simmering anger can spill over.

~*~

Amenadiel accepts, in the wake of Lucifer’s refusal, that the Devil will not return to Hell if Amenadiel is directly involved.

Perhaps, Lucifer would see it as losing face. Perhaps it’s more of his stubborn pride. 

Whatever the cause, Amenadiel has firmly scratched himself off of that list of options. If an offer to intervene with Father wasn’t enough to tempt Lucifer into seeing reason, Amenadiel can think of nothing within his power to give that Lucifer would be interested in.

Lucifer doesn’t value Amenadiel’s council, but _Maze_…

He thinks of the expression the demon wore when Lucifer announced his disinterest in returning to Hell. He thinks of Mazikeen’s quiet disapproval for Lucifer severing his wings.

The demon, whether through loyalty to Lucifer, or a fear of God’s retribution, or her own desire for things to return to normal, is _also_ interested in Lucifer returning to Hell. Amenadiel is sure he’s right about this.

It’s a few days before he finds the right moment to confront her.

Lucifer is absent from Lux. The demon is, for once, not in bed with someone. He finds her alone, tidying the club from the previous night’s revelry.

She greets him with a thrown blade. Amenadiel easily bends to the side and to let it pass by. He had been expecting it.

They trade quips. They trade blows. The demon is fast and lithe and strong, but she’s not an equal. Amenadiel pins her to a column, trying to stay her useless attacks long enough for her to actually _listen _to him.

“Enough!” he barks. “We want the same thing!” He implores her to see reason, but she smirks back at him.

“Oh, do we? Let’s see,” she says, and leans forward –

And _licks_ him.

The demon’s tongue runs a wet, warm swipe up Amenadiel’s cheek, and he lets go of her pinned hands, cringes back from the contact. It was invasive and unpleasant, sexual and –

“Uh-oh,” Mazikeen purrs. “Did I hit a nerve?”

He squares his shoulders.

“Mazikeen, we both know that something has fundamentally _changed_ in Lucifer,” he says, getting the conversation back on topic. “Now aren’t you the least bit concerned?”

“No. It’s a phase. It’ll pass.”

She moves to leave and he presses a hand to the front of her vest, pushing her back into the column. 

“You’re lying to me. You’re lying to _yourself_,” he tells her, willing her to understand. Her eyes trail down to the point of contact, and back up to his face, making a lewd suggestion of what Amenadiel had only intended as restraint. He takes his hand away. “Now, we can help each other. We can get him back to where he belongs, if you can just provide me with a weak spot. Some insight.”

“No,” she says, giving him a taunting once-over. “Means no.” She winks at Amenadiel and bumps his shoulder with hers as she departs.

Briefly, Amenadiel closes his eyes in frustration. Just like her master, the demon is unwilling to listen to reason.

But he thinks he’s on the right track – that Mazikeen is indeed the key to Lucifer’s return to Hell. He just needs to figure out what she wants in return. 

Amenadiel touches his damp cheek. He remembers Tio Sorento, years ago. A hotel room and a lost necklace, and Hell’s most brutal torturer getting information from the human, not through pain, but by … other means.

Amenadiel’s stomach turns.

He casts his eyes towards Heaven, not quite daring to pray but _hoping_… hoping that there will be some word from Father, some sign, or orders, or instructions.

But Heaven is silent.

And Amenadiel forces himself to consider his options.

~*~

It’s several days later when Amenadiel returns from Hell to find a note on his kitchen table.

_Beezlebean, noon_

There’s something spikey and violent about the handwriting. Amenadiel smiles, knowing who left it there.

~*~

Mazikeen gives him a name. Dr. Linda Martin. Lucifer’s _therapist_, as if such a thing isn’t absurd.

She’s a petite woman. Blonde, pale, bespeckled. She dresses tastefully, professionally. The office down the hall from her practice is empty and it’s easy to rent it. It’s easy to have a professional-looking placard made to hang by his door, easy to change the space into a plausible simulacrum of a psychiatrist’s office. 

Amenadiel spends an afternoon reading through modern books on psychology, psychiatry. He marvels at the ways humans have found to justify their behaviors, but he learns what he thinks he’ll need to know to blend in.

Apparently, patients tell their doctors all _sorts_ of intimate and revealing things.

He had asked Mazikeen for a weak spot, and she had exposed Lucifer’s throat.

When he ‘bumps into’ Dr. Martin, she plays into his hands with very little effort. Amenadiel knows how to be charming when he needs to be. He presents himself to Dr. Martin as someone well-dressed, soft-spoken, and unthreatening. He wears expensive cologne and exudes calm confidence. He wants her to trust him, and so he makes himself seem trustworthy.

“I’m Dr. Canaan,” he says, smiling slightly at the joke he knows she’ll miss.

Dr. Martin laughs, her tension at the unexpected encounter draining away.

“Oh, okay. Hi. Um, I’m Linda,” she offers her hand, and Amenadiel shakes it, gentle and firm, letting his touch linger. “Uh, Doctor Martin,” She corrects herself, and then laughs with nervous pleasure when he finally withdraws.

“I was just about to head out and grab some dinner.” He smiles and bends towards her. “A little celebration for setting up the new practice. Would you care to join me, neighbor?”

“Oh, I – well, I mean, I should be getting home. And I’m sure you have friends meeting you there, right?”

“Sadly, no,” Amenadiel says, shaking his head. “I just moved. Still putting down roots, as it were.”

“Oh!” She tucks a strand of hair back behind her ear. Chews her lip indecisively.

“It’ll be my treat,” Amenadiel adds, hoping to encourage her off the fence.

“That’s very kind,” she says, but he can sense she’s still hesitating.

“Or, if you’re busy, do you know anyplace around here that has good wine?”

It’s the last push that’s needed.

She tucks her bag more firmly under her arm.

“You know what, there’s a great little bistro just down the street. Why don’t I show you?”

~*~

He establishes rapport. 

In five years, this is the most progress he’s made to cracking open Lucifer’s armor, and he takes things slowly. He treads carefully. Dr. Martin is a _fortune_, and he takes care not to overplay his hand or use her too blatantly.

“I actually need someone to confide in,” he says, ducking his head in a show of bashful humility.

“Confide in?” she asks.

“About a patient. A troubling one.”

“Oh, so a doctor-to-doctor thing.”

“Exactly,” Ameandiel agrees, smiling. “And, hey, listen, if you have any patients you need to talk about…” He trails off in a suggestion and she pounces on it. He’d _known _Lucifer would make himself a burden to anyone trying to take him seriously.

“You have no idea,” she laughs.

They go for drinks. He listens to tedious tales about couples therapy going awry and med school shenanigans. Patients that are chronic bedwetters, kleptomaniacs. He offers stories of his own, fabricated from examples he’s read about in his research.

“But who is it that’s driving you up the wall lately?” Linda prods, sipping her wine and raising an eyebrow. “You seemed to have someone particular in mind.”

“Oh, well. You know. A delusional patient. Thinks he’s someone he isn’t. You ever have one of those?”

“I have one now,” Linda says, surprise and delight raising her voice. “Mine thinks he’s the Devil.” She taps the rim of her glass against his, as if they’re sharing a joke.

“So he’s… what, sacrificing goats in his spare time? Corrupting nuns?” Amenadiel asks.

“No, no, nothing like that. He’s actually quite insistent that the popular interpretation of Satan is completely wrong.”

Amenadiel hums; an intrigued sound. He wants to see what else she’ll say.

“He’s struggling with an internal dilemma,” she elaborates. “I think he identifies with the Devil because he sympathizes with the conflict between a belief that he’s bad, and a desire to want to be good.” She waves her hand and sighs. “Gosh, sorry, I’m talking your ear off.” She laughs. “What about your patient? The one that’s giving you trouble?”

“Thinks he’s Napoleon Bonapart,” Amenadiel says, trying not to smirk. He tunes out Dr. Martin’s commentary about how she’d heard about cases like that happening a hundred years ago, and how interesting it was that he would have a case like that now. He offers the expected responses, most of his attention turning over the intel she’s handed him.

Lucifer wants to be good, apparently. Dr. Martin can’t possibly understand the larger context, but what she’s just given Amenadiel…

Lucifer _wants_ to resume his duties. He still seeks their Father’s approval, no matter what he’s said to the contrary.

Which means, Amenadiel just needs to find the right temptation to make him act on those desires.

He thinks of a warded freight container, and a plan snaps into place.

~*~

Amenadiel presses his ear to the wall between Dr. Canaan’s office and Dr. Martin’s.

He coils himself up as tightly as possible and strains to hear every word. Lucifer is in a snit. He’s angry that the container was stolen, and Amenadiel grins against the satin paint.

Dr. Martin makes an effort to control the Devil, but Lucifer is, in all things, unwieldy.

He waits a beat after Lucifer storms off to exit his office and knock on Linda’s door.

After she gets over her surprise of him not being Lucifer, she invites him in.

“All right,” Amenadiel says, leaning towards her as if they’re sharing a mischievous secret. “So what kind of parent names their kid Lucifer?” 

She shoots him a look, and he laughs, ducking his head. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t mean to be unprofessional, but –”

She waves her hand, dismissing the apology. “We’re colleagues. Cone of silence. And – I don’t believe his real name is Lucifer. We talk in metaphors.”

Of course she would believe that. _Humans_, Amenadiel thinks.

“Hmm. Patients with delusions. They can be really challenging.”

She nods.

“He’s actually quite charming.”

She smiles, thinking too-fond thoughts for the Devil, and Amenadiel frowns.

“Yeah, but even Satan disguises himself as an angel of the light.” She blinks at him and he adds: “2 Corinthians, chapter 11, verse 14.”

She makes a small, surprised sound, and he demurs with a little head shake.

“Two years of seminary school,” he explains. “Before I decided I wanted to help people in a different way.”

It’s tempting, badly tempting to stay and draw out information about Lucifer.

But he holds himself back. He makes her an offer for Biblical consultation, and leaves it there for her to take, or not, knowing she’s more likely to reach out if she believes it’s her own idea.

~*~

Dr. Martin barely waits until the end of the business day before inviting him back into her office.

She pours wine, settles on the couch next to him, boldly invading his space. 

They talk about Lucifer. 

And Amenadiel tells her about Samael.

~*~

The plan proceeds _beautifully,_ and later, at the auction house, when Lucifer lets slip that his stay on Earth has started rendering him _vulnerable_, that he had _bled_ like any mortal creature –

After a moment of shock, Amenadiel’s mind springs to the inevitable conclusion of what will happen if Lucifer sustains a fatal wound.

“What are you grinning about?” Lucifer demands.

“I’m just realizing the gravity of what you’re saying.”

“That I’m allergic to lead projectiles?” Lucifer asks, glib and ignorant, as if he genuinely hasn’t considered the implications of his changes.

“That even if you don’t choose Hell,” Amenadiel says, _savoring_ this. “All I have to do is wait for some pitiful thug to end you, and right back to Hell you go.”

Lucifer scoffs. Looks away. _Not_, though, before Amenadiel sees the flash of understanding pass through Lucifer’s eyes. The Devil’s smile wilts away, and it feels like victory.

“Hadn’t put that one together yet, had you, Luci?” Amenadiel laughs. “You just made my millennium.”

Amenadiel starts to relax as Carmen takes the stage, rattling on as only true charlatans can. Everything is coming together _perfectly_, and this new, unexpected turn of Lucifer’s mortality – it makes Amenadiel more sure than ever that Lucifer will reclaim his proper place soon enough.

This prolonged stay on Earth has clearly affected him for the worse. There’s _physical_ proof of it now.

And Lucifer is far too proud to risk his return to Hell coming at the hands of a silly mortal injury. 

No, Lucifer will take the wings back and return to Hell on what he believes are his own terms. 

~*~

Amenadiel departs from the auction house once Lucifer has his wings. He flies back to the house he’d reluctantly bartered for, full of the things he’s reluctantly bought, and wonders if Lucifer will say anything before he returns to Hell, or if Amenadiel will merely feel the ripples of the archangel departing the mortal realm.

He tosses his suit jacket onto the back of a chair, pours himself a glass of wine, and settles onto his couch to wait.

When Lucifer’s prayer comes, asking for Amenadiel’s presence, Amenadiel is near the bottom of the glass. It’s longer than Amenadiel expected Lucifer to take, but after more than five years, a handful of hours seems a paltry thing to complain about.

He finds Lucifer on the beach. The wings lay in a wide arc behind Lucifer; divine and bright. Lucifer sits in the middle of them – almost, but not quite, where he should be.

“I knew you’d come,” Lucifer says, laughing softly.

“Of course I’d come. It’s my duty to return the wings where they belong.” Amenadiel smiles at the play on words. Lucifer, of course, believes that Amenadiel intends to take the wings back to Heaven. And Amenadiel – oh, things are so close to being complete that he can barely hide his excitement. 

“Is that all?” Lucifer asks.

“After everything that you’ve been through,” Ameandiel says, searching Lucifer’s face. “Bleeding, searching, reaching to the high heavens for help. Now that you finally have your wings… hasn’t part of you longed to assume your form?” 

Lucifer’s mouth moves, but he doesn’t say anything. He toys with the cigarette held loosely in his fingers.

“Get back to where you belong,” Amenadiel encourages him.

Lucifer takes a breath. He raises his cigarette but doesn’t inhale.

“Not exactly,” the Devil says, and throws the burning cigarette over his shoulder.

The wings ignite in a such a furious and immediate blaze that, later, he will wonder if Lucifer had soaked them in accelerant.

He stares at the unfolding destruction, mouth slack with disbelief.

“What are you doing?” he yells, rushing towards the wings, sinking to his knees in the sand before them. It’s already too late to save them. Seizing time won’t fix this.

“Well, ruining your plan, it seems,” Lucifer says behind him. “It was you, brother. You tipped Carmon off and orchestrated the theft.”

Amenadiel curls his hands in the sand.

“Because you left me no choice,” he says.

Lucifer laughs.

“Well, clearly, you were desperate. I mean, you were willing to let a human die and unleash the wings upon the world just to remind me who I was.” 

The biker, Amenadiel thinks, and winces. The man who jumped to his death after witnessing divinity. 

But that hadn’t been Amenadiel’s fault. That isn’t Amenadiel’s blame to bear, for all that he did use the man. If Lucifer hadn’t cut off his wings, there would have _been _no severed wings to drive the human mad.

Amenadiel rises to his feet, turning his back on the obscene display of the burning divinity. Lucifer grins at him, all teeth.

“To fool me into desiring the wings and the hellish throne they accompany,” he continues, and Amenadiel briefly closes his eyes, pained at having his plan laid bare.

“Well, do you know what?” Lucifer pauses, leaning closer. “It almost bloody worked!”

The truth of it lances through Amenadiel. He had come _so close_.

“But destroy them?” Amenadiel asks. “_Why_?”

“Well, you were right,” Lucifer says easily. “Severing the wings _was_ a half measure. I did leave myself an out - a rip cord back to the life that dear old Dad chose for me. But I don't need it now, because, in case I haven't made myself _abundantly_ clear –” He spreads his hands, gesturing at the burning wings. “I am never going back to Hell.”

Amenadiel looks back at the burning feathers, sorrow and failure tugging at his heart. Lucifer closes the distance between them and puts a hand on Amenadiel’s back, as though they were comrades. As though they were brothers.

“But, uh, A for effort. I’m sure dad will give you a big gold star for trying.” The Devil claps Amenadiel on the cheek in mockery.

Lucifer takes a step back, sliding his hands into his pockets, everything about him stating satisfaction at having ruined a peaceful resolution to this rebellion.

Amenadiel sees red. He feels the heat of the flames behind him, and when Lucifer quirks a challenging eyebrow, it’s –

Something inside him _snaps_.

It’s a familiar feeling. He thinks of a cage, a crowd, and the satisfaction of Lucifer’s smirking mouth breaking under his fist.

With a yell, he charges Lucifer, scooping him up and throwing him down onto the beach as hard as he can. He throws punches that impact with the Devil’s face, over, and over, and Amenadiel can feel the wet warmth of Lucifer’s blood on his knuckles.

Lucifer laughs, squirming beneath Amenadiel, and Amenadiel clenches his hand in the shoulder of Lucifer’s shirt to hold him in place.

“That’s right, hit me brother! Go on, again! Become like me! Become wrath!” Lucifer goads, and he’s making no effort to defend himself or hit back. “_Fall_ as I did!” he shouts through bloody teeth.

The words shock Amenadiel out of his fury. He stills his hand, looking down at the bleeding mess of an archangel sprawled beneath him.

“Come on. Come _on_,” Lucifer pants, giggling, and disgust catches up to Amenadiel. He climbs off of Lucifer, falling back onto the sand away from him.

Lucifer wipes his mouth and slurs at him: “You never were much of a closer, were you, eh? Can’t stand to get your hands dirty?”

The words are thick around his swelling lips. 

Amenadiel looks at Lucifer, at the way the Devil grins while blood oozes down his chin. 

“This is far from over,” he says, and stands. Lucifer makes no effort to rise. The Devil leans back on his hands, half-sitting up, and stares defiance at Amenadiel.

Amenadiel looks at the burning ruin of the wings.

He swallows, and discards a peaceful resolution.

“I’ll do whatever it takes to get you back to Hell,” he promises. 

He walks away from Lucifer and spreads his wings. He flexes his sore hand as he flies, mind casting about for the next move through the static of his horrified thoughts. _Fall as I did_. The reek of burning wings.

Amenadiel shudders.

The detective, he realizes. She’s close to Lucifer, in law enforcement. It stood to reason that proximity to her would put Lucifer close to the sort of violent humans that could, perhaps, be _persuaded_ to put a bullet in the Devil.

He had wanted Lucifer back on the throne to Hell of his own volition, but he’s perfectly happy to put Lucifer there by force.

Actually, Amenadiel thinks – this will be even better. Without his wings, Lucifer won’t be able to return to Earth once he’s below.

A blessing in disguise.

He finds the detective; sees the ‘living wake,’ and what he gleans from the event – if Malcolm is a damned soul, then this is an opportunity so perfect that Amenadiel’s breath catches.

Surely, this must be God’s hand at work.

Amenadiel had planned to find someone who would accept money for the deed, but Hell? Hell is a much more effective threat.

He finds Malcolm Graham just as his to-be-widow concedes to turning his life support off.

And Amenadiel follows Malcolm’s soul to Hell.

Amenadiel flies through the tumultuous, ashen air. It seems to him that Hell grows more and more harsh and restless every time he returns. It misses its king, Amenadiel thinks, but then he shakes his head, knowing it’s foolish to assign emotions to a place.

The descending soul isn’t an ambiguous one. It doesn’t wander, lost and uncertain, waiting for guilt to guide it to the right door.

No, Malcolm’s soul makes a straight path into its Hell loop.

Amenadiel waits outside. He waits for hours, giving the soul _plenty _of time to know suffering, knowing that bare moments will have passed on Earth.

When he opens the door, he sees the vision of Malcolm’s Hell. It is a place of temptation and deprivation, akin to Tantalus, and Amenadiel sniffs at the lack of originality. 

It hardly matters, though.

“Do you want to leave this place?” Amenadiel asks, and the man turns to him, wide-eyed and pale with desperation.

“Please,” he begs “Please, please, yes, I’ll do anything.”

“I’m so glad to hear it,” Amenadiel says. 

~*~

Malcolm is a tiresome little mortal. Cowardly, conniving, selfish and greedy. He tries Amenadiel’s patience, and it’s tempting to make another trip to Hell to try and find a better candidate.

But Amenadiel has been watching. Malcolm is uniquely situated to be near Lucifer, and often at that. 

The mortal asks for time to recover physically, and then more time to get an untraceable gun, and yet more time to arrange for a ‘fall guy.’ 

Amenadiel grows more annoyed with every delay, but he’s also confident that Malcolm is sufficiently motivated to do the deed. He can be patient for a little while longer.

Amenadiel heads to one of his favorite restaurants, orders one of his favorite meals, and tries to suppress the excitement flowing through him. He’s been disappointed before. He knows how much it can sting, having hopes dashed. 

Mazikeen finds him, claiming she followed the stench of his failure; that he had ruined her life and the least she could do in return was ruin his night.

Amenadiel laughs.

“It’s not my fault that you betrayed your boss.”

“My problems are _your_ problems,” she sneers. “Which would be the _only_ thing that you and I have in common.”

“So you came here because…?” Amenadiel prods, and when she just stares at him, he realizes – Lucifer will have thrown her out. Humor sparks through him. He’s never seen the demon wrong-footed before, and it’s hard not to enjoy it. “Because you have nowhere else to go?” 

“Yes I do,” she snaps, a quick and flimsy denial. “I have lots of places to go.” She steals a vegetable off his plate and bites it in punctuation. “_Lots_ of places.”

“And because you have no one else to talk to, either,” Amenadiel concludes, as if she hadn’t spoken.

She glares at him.

“Says the angel sitting here eating a medium rare steak by himself.” Her eyebrows raise in challenge, and Amenadiel reaches for his wine. She beats him to it, stealing the glass and taking a long drink. She doesn’t even pause to savor it.

“What?” she says in response to his glower. “It’s not like you were going to drink it. You’re so _boring_.”

“I’m actually _not_ boring. I’m pretty exciting,” Amenadiel says. He tucks a napkin into the collar of his shirt, preparing to eat his meal in the off-chance the demon plans to steal that from his plate as well. This restaurant does a raspberry bourbon sauce that is so much like something he enjoyed in Heaven that he knows it will be completely wasted on her.

Mazikeen scoffs at him.

“My definition of _excitement_,” she leans forward. “Is _fun. _Danger. _Sex_,” she lingers on the word, eyes glinting. “Spontaneity. You are none of those things.”

Is that really what she thinks of him?

“Yes, I am,” Amenadiel denies, plucking off his napkin irritably. 

“Give me one example,” she challenges him, clearly expecting him to have nothing to offer. 

Amenadiel thinks. What will impress her? 

Ah.

“You know that story about Lucifer and the goat?” he asks. 

She rocks back in her seat, skeptical. “Yeah,” she says, and when he winks at her, her eyebrows rise in delight.

“No,” she breathes. “That was you?”

“That was me,” Amenadiel confirms, a grin breaking across his face. “A whisper here, a divine appearance there… Word got around.”

“He _hates_ the goat thing!” she laughs.

“I know!”

Pleasure makes Amenadiel’s cheeks feel warm. Or perhaps it’s the wine.

“He could never figure out where it came from,” Mazikeen says, shaking her head with admiration.

“You know,” Amenadiel confides. “I’ve waiting a thousand years to tell someone that.”

The waiter returns, refilling the pilfered glass of wine, and Maze tells him to leave the bottle. She settles her elbow on the table, holding the glass casually in her other hand, and gives Amenadiel an appraising look.

“You never told your siblings?” she asks. “I would have thought the feathered crowd would _delight_ at that bit of mockery.”

Amenadiel shrugs.

“My siblings… Most of them are too distant to appreciate the joke.”

He thinks of Sandalphon cheerfully writing obscenities on one of Heaven’s beaches, and he knows that, perhaps, what he said isn’t entirely true. He has no doubt that if he’d told his brothers and sisters about the ways he’s found to annoy Lucifer, they’d delight in it, eager to see the Devil lowered even further.

Amenadiel chooses not to examine why he’d kept these interactions to himself.

“Did Lucifer ever tell you about the time he got stuck helping a woman deliver a calf?” Amenadiel asks instead, thinking of the expression of flabbergasted disgust Lucifer had worn, nearly up to his shoulders in bovine blood and birthing fluids as he settled his side of a deal. Amenadiel had been less aggrieved than usual about giving Lucifer more time on Earth on that occasion. Lucifer hadn’t thanked him for it.

Maze snorts, and leans closer still. 

“Tell me _everything_,” she demands, eyes gleaming with the shared mischief.

And Amenadiel does.

It’s… a bit startling to realize that, aside from occasional ire-inciting barbs with Lucifer, this is the first time in years that Amenadiel has spoken to someone that he can, more or less, consider an equal. At least in terms of celestial knowledge. 

How frustrating to realize that the years apart from Heaven have made him _lonely_.

Mazikeen steals pieces of food off his plate, cheerfully obnoxious, and Amenadiel allows it with only the occasional mock stab of his fork at her fingers when they cross the table.

One bottle of wine becomes two.

They linger over desert.

“That time he came back completely messed up on, what was it, opium, I think. Did you find him in a puddle or something?”

“I dragged him through a lake first.”

She cackles.

“His hair was amazing afterwards - Hell steamed it up _real_ good. It took him weeks to comb it into any sort of order. He ended up sulking up on his throne for _months_.”

They talk, trading stories back and forth, mostly at Lucifer’s expense. It’s strangely easy to talk to her, for all that she’s a demon.

At some point, third bottle of wine appears. Or is it the fourth? Or fifth?

Amenadiel may be divine, but he’s never had Lucifer’s tolerance, built up as it was by centuries of labor. When he finishes his next glass, he’s feeling pleasantly light and loose-limbed. 

When Maze’s fingers brush down his arm and circle his wrist, the warmth of her fingers is welcome. He’s enjoying her company, and her touch is… nice. 

In the alley behind the restaurant, she presses her body against his; supple, soft curves against him, the smell of leather and wine. That wicked tongue of hers licks up his neck, followed by a gentle nibble at the pulse point in his throat. It should be invasive, as touches like this have been in the past – sloppy, horny humans pawing at him while he’d collected Lucifer from Earth.

But this, now, with Mazikeen… it doesn’t feel like an intrusion. 

It feels… He doesn’t know the word.

When her hand slips into his pants, he gasps.

“First time, angel?” she says, her eyes glittering with something that isn’t quite ridicule when he looks down at her. Her fingers are confident, competent, and the thrill of sensation makes his legs tremble.

“Oh,” Amenadiel moans, a stretched-out exhale of a syllable. He’d had no idea. Is _this_ why Lucifer…?

And when Maze sinks to her knees…well.

Time may be Amenadiel’s domain, but he loses track of it completely.

~*~

They have sex in the alley. They have sex in the car – the filthy promises Maze spills into Amenadiel’s ears so lewd and hot that his wings inadvertently unfurl.

They’re still sticky and panting when Amenadiel drives them back to his home. They have sex on his couch, and against the wall of his dining room, and when he scoops her up and drops her in his bed, she laughs with delight.

“I have _missed_ that refractory period,” she cackles. Her legs wrap tight around his waist and she bucks up against him, wanton and unrepentant, demanding more. “Go on, angel, put your back into it!”

~*~

She showers and leaves a few hours later, leaving Amenadiel in a blissed-out slump in his bed.

His wings trail out beside him, unfurled and limp, still aching pleasantly from when she’d buried her fingers in the feathers and raked her nails down the soft skin underneath.

Amenadiel’s body is lax and sated in a completely novel way. 

He knows he should get up and wash. He’s a mess. The entire room stinks of sex. 

But he’s comfortable, and content, and it just doesn’t seem important right now.

He sleeps.

~*~

In the morning, Amenadiel does laundry. He makes coffee and changes his sheets, and oh-so-briefly pops down to Hell, just for a moment, just to _check_ and see if Malcolm has made good on his end of the bargain yet.

He hasn’t. The throne lies empty, and Amenadiel can tell that Lucifer remains absent from the infernal realm.

The annoyance that Amenadiel knows he should feel is muted, somewhat, by the aftermath of pleasure that he can still feel coursing through his blood.

He had sex. 

He had sex with a demon.

He had _sex_. With a _demon_.

And it had been wonderful.

The coffee goes cold while Amenadiel sits at his kitchen island and thinks, and thinks, and thinks.

~*~

Maze joins him that evening, slipping into his home with barely a whisper of sound. She settles on the couch beside him as if there by a long-standing invitation. She steals the remote from him, tsking at his limited choice of channels, before settling on a show that seemed to revolve around to-be-brides becoming more and more ridiculous in their demands and arguments.

Amenadiel watches, fascinated, as a grown woman has a full-blown, screaming meltdown over a bouquet of flowers that are purple, but apparently not purple _enough_.

Maze sighs wistfully.

“Reminds me of home,” she says. 

“Do you miss it?” Amenadiel asks.

Maze doesn’t answer him. She watches the television, expression distant, and Amenadiel lets it drop.

When the show is interrupted by commercials, Maze strips off her pants and pushes Amenadiel back onto the couch.

Amenadiel never does learn whether or not the bride found the perfect bouquet.

~*~

It starts becoming a habit.

More often than not, Maze spends her evenings with him. Sometimes, they share meals, conversations, or watch films. Frequently, they skip straight to the sex.

Sometimes, Amenadiel remembers Tio Sorento, and he’ll ask Maze about Lucifer. She gives him a narrow-eyed look that states that she knows what he’s doing, but more often than not, she tells him what the Devil is up to anyway.

“Now enough talking,” she’ll usually say, her news delivered, and pounce on him. Amenadiel is always happy to let the topic drop. 

Mazikeen teaches him… quite a lot of new things. Eggs him on to use his body in ways he’s never considered before, and Amenadiel finds himself calling on half-forgotten (and half-suppressed) memories of all the absurd and obscene things he’s ever caught Lucifer doing, just to try and keep up with her.

It’s _fun_. Almost addictively so.

And aside from the physical pleasure of it, Amenadiel enjoys _her_. He has missed conversations, and the demon has a sharp wit and a terrible sense of humor. She appreciates him in turn, and, oh, Amenadiel has missed the feeling of being valued. More than that – Maze actually seems to look forward to seeing him. Amenadiel isn’t sure he’s ever had that before. 

It’s a bittersweet sort of pain, thinking forward to the inevitable day that Malcolm finally fulfills their bargain and kills Lucifer.

On the one hand, Amenadiel will have succeeded in his task to see the Devil back to Hell. Amenadiel will get to return to Heaven, to his siblings, to the peace and comfort of the Silver City.

But on the other hand, it will mean leaving Mazikeen behind.

With Lucifer wingless, he doesn’t imagine the Devil will be able to find a way out of Hell anymore. After Amenadiel takes Mazikeen back below, he will have no reason to visit; no reason to see either of them again.

Amenadiel presses kisses against the soft flesh of Maze’s inner thighs, and tries to convince himself it will be for the best.

~*~

It’s been a month since he resurrected Malcolm, and the cringing worm still hasn’t killed Lucifer.

Amenadiel waits and watches, looking for an opportunity to privately remind Malcolm of the Hell that awaits him if he doesn’t go through with his task. He pounces on the man in the parking lot of the precinct.

“Why,” Amenadiel snarls, grabbing the man by his lapels and spinning him into a support column. “Is Lucifer still alive?”

“Oh, it’s you.” Malcolm exhales an exaggerated sigh of relief and rolls his eyes. “You scared me, dude.”

It’s flippant, and entirely unacceptable.

“Have you forgotten what will happen to you if you don’t comply with our deal?”

“No, but I forgot to tell you!” he rushes to say. “Lucifer spilled the beans!”

Amenadiel blinks. Takes a step back. Lets the mortal slide down the concrete column as he releases his hold on Malcolm’s shirt.

“What are you talking about?”

“All that jazz about ‘condemning me to eternal damnation?’” Malcolm says, with a casualness that’s obscene. “Poppycock, apparently. You’re an angel and Lucifer said that you’re not _allowed_ to kill me. Plus, I got this beauty right here.” He holds up a small, silver coin. “It’s my get-out-of-Hell free card.”

This close, Amenadiel can see that it’s a Pentecostal coin. An object with power. He remembers seeing Lucifer spin a silver coin through his fingers, a multitude of times. He’d never realized it was more that just a coin. How long has Lucifer had such a thing in his possession? _How_ did Lucifer have such a thing in his possession?

And why would he give it to _Malcolm_, of all people?

Rage lights a fire in Amenadiel, and he grabs Malcom again, pinning him into his car. He tightens his fists, the threat obvious, but Malcom clearly isn’t impressed.

Malcolm smirks at him, proud and pompous, like he’d won. Like such a token could _ever_ be more than a temporary stay for a man like him.

Amenadiel growls, frustrated beyond measure at having this pathetic excuse for a human out-maneuver him.

Malcolms sighs at his display, rubbing in Amenadiel’s impotence.

“Soooo,” the man drawls. “Unless you got a better offer… hashtag, team Lucifer,” he says. They’re nonsense words, but the intention is clear.

Amenadiel drops his hands, glaring at the human’s impudence.

“You chose to believe the Devil, the _Prince of Lies_, over an angel of the Lord?” Amenadiel demands, leaning into a name that Lucifer despises, because – maybe, there are still cracks he can exploit, here.

Malcolm brushes off his jacket.

“No hard feelings?” he mocks, but there is, Amenadiel thinks, a flicker of doubt in his brazen façade.

“Kill Lucifer,” Amenadiel says. “And I’ll forgive this foolishness.”

“Yeah, I’ll get right on that, buddy,” Malcolm says, and claps Amenadiel’s shoulder.

It takes everything in him not to retaliate by breaking Malcolm’s fingers.

With a snarl, Amenadiel seizes time and flies away before he does something he’ll regret.

~*~

He starts to pour himself a glass of wine, and stops. He starts to prepare a bath, and stops. He picks up a book, puts it down.

His mind circles, around and around, like a caged animal.

The afternoon slips into the evening without him noticing, and when Maze’s voice drifts in from the other room, he realizes that he’d completely missed their dinner plans.

“Well, if you can’t bring Muhammad to the dim sum,” she teases.

Amenadiel swallows but doesn’t turn around.

“Hey,” she says, and the steady sound of her boots on the hardwood comes closer. “Why’d you stand me up?”

The accusation is gentled by the concern in her voice. 

“I had one task,” Amenadiel says. “One. To get my brother back to Hell.”

He turns and briefly meets Maze’s eyes before looking away, ashamed.

“I’ve not only _failed_, I’ve actually made things worse. I’m even sleeping with a demon.”

She knows, of course – she must know, how conflicted Amenadiel feels about their arrangement. He’s an angel. He’s supposed to be above base, carnal desires. That he’s not only indulged, but indulged with _her_ -

Maze crawls across his bed and crouches up on her knees, and he stands before her, nearly eye-to-eye.

“Yeah, you lucky son of a bitch,” she says. The words are delivered lightly. She hadn’t taken offense. “Come on,” she cajoles, “You can’t say this isn’t the best sex you’ve ever had.” A playful, considering head tilt as she adds: “Well. It’s the _only_ sex you’ve ever had, but still.”

He laughs. A little of his tension bleeds away.

“Look,” she says, and her hands glide up to land on his shoulders. “I’ve had a _lot_ of sex with men. And women.” She nods, as if imparting the seriousness of her statement. “I mean a lot.”

“Okay,” he says, frowning. “Point made.”

“But this… with you.” She looks down. “I don’t know. It’s… it’s different.”

Her hand tugs him lightly, and Amenadiel smiles despite himself, leaning in for a kiss that she happily meets.

Until she pulls away, turning her head to the side to break the contact. She gives him a pleading look.

“But if you’re not happy here… then you should go home.”

There’s an intensity in her dark eyes that Amenadiel feels like a wound. As if returning home were actually an option for him.

“I can’t,” he says. He leans away from her. “I can’t face my Father as a failure.” It’s… unthinkable. “Look, I have a job to do. There’s no choice.”

Her gaze is heavy, and she nods, accepting the seriousness of what he’s imparting.

“I understand,” she says.

When she slips her hand around the back of his neck and pulls him closer, her mouth is soft.

Tonight, everything about her is soft, and yet demanding. She caresses his skin like she can’t get enough of the feel of him. It’s flattering, and it makes the ache in his chest even worse when he thinks about her going back to Hell. That sense of imminent loss seems to vibrate between them, nearly tangible, and they don’t speak except to say _more, more, please, more_.

The dim sum grows cold, forgotten and abandoned where she dropped it hours ago. Neither notice.

Sated, spent, he coaxes her body to one more peak, her legs clamping tightly around his head while she claws at the sheets. When she crests, and they settle, she cleaves to his back, resting against him. They pant in tandem, and Amenadiel takes pride in the way her heart pounds, gradually slowing as she comes down.

He slips into a doze.

Amenadiel isn’t sure quite what wakes him, some time later. A small sound, perhaps. A change in the air between them. 

His body prickles with unease, and he spins, catching her wrist in his hand.

She stares at him, regret heavy in her eyes, and she relaxes her grip, turning the blade in her fingers so that it points away from him. As if she hadn’t just been planning to stab him in the back while he slept.

Amenadiel feels betrayed. His throat is tight with pain and disbelief, and when she says nothing to defend herself, nothing to deny what he’d caught her doing, he shoves her hand back and leaves the bed.

“Amenadiel – ” She says, but it’s far too late.

He grabs his clothes and flies away.

~*~

Amenadiel dresses on a rooftop across from Lux, hurt and seething, his motions so forceful that he hears the pop of a seam giving way. 

He slaps his hands against the legs of his jeans, paces, turns his eyes up to the Heavens.

It’s on the tip of his tongue to ask Father for assistance, give him a reason, a purpose – some _clarity_ out of the maelstrom he finds himself in.

But Amenadiel stops.

He knows _exactly_ why he’s in this situation. 

He knows exactly why Mazikeen turned on him.

He flies to Lux, rage pouring through him. Malcolm is there, _finally_ doing as he’s been asked and leveling a gun at Lucifer, but suddenly, it’s not enough.

It’s not enough just to send Lucifer back to Hell.

“Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?” Amenadiel demands, interrupting them. Lucifer turns, ignoring Malcolm, and sneers at Amenadiel.

“After the monumentally dreadful day I’ve had, _you_ decide to drop in now? I’m cleaning up your _mess_, by the way, so if you don’t mind –”

“You sent your demon to seduce and then kill me.”

Lucifer laughs, and Amenadiel sees red. Dimly, he’s aware that Malcolm, coward that he is, is using the moment to slip away.

Amenadiel advances forward, hands curling into fists.

“Yeah,” he says. “I definitely mind.”

The penthouse elevator makes a noise as Malcolm slips in, and Lucifer turns to watch the doors close, taking Malcolm away.

“Right,” the Devil says. “Wonderful. _Now_ look what you’ve done. The man you just freed – you know, the one you raised from the dead? – he’s murdering _humans_. And that… that is on your hands, brother.”

“You’re wrong,” Amenadiel says, barely hearing him. He thinks about Maze. He thinks of Heaven. Years of frustration boil over as he advances across the penthouse floor. “It’s _your_ fault. It always has been.”

Lucifer’s jaw sets in a stubborn line, and Amenadiel wants to break it.

He throws a punch –

\- Which Lucifer catches in his hand, the kinetic force of it pushing him back a little, but it’s not the blow Amenadiel had been trying to land.

Lucifer’s fingers squeeze harshly, biting into Amenadiel’s clenched fist.

“I hate to break it to you bro,” Lucifer says through his rictus of a smile. The Devil throws a punch back, landing it just below Amenadiel’s throat, and Amenadiel chokes with the impact, stumbling away. “But this time, I’m fighting _back_.”

Lucifer swings at him again, and Amenadiel ducks under his arm. Amenadiel answers with a punch to the stomach, an uppercut that throws Lucifer’s head back.

“If you’d only done what was asked of you,” Amenadiel shouts at him, hitting him in the face. It feels _great_, punching Lucifer. It feels _just_. “None of this would have happened and I’d still be home! Where I belong!”

Lucifer catches the next punch, locking Amenadiel’s arm in an extended position. 

“Heaven?” Lucifer hisses. “Really? You sure that’s still home, eh?”

Amenadiel wriggles free and Lucifer shoves him away. “After everything _you’ve_ done?” the Devil yells. Amenadiel rallies and comes at him again, but Lucifer blocks each blow and sends returns that land and leave Amenadiel’s head ringing. “Sleeping with a demon?” Lucifer tsks. “I think dad might have another assignment for you. Somewhere, I dunno, slightly _warmer_?”

Lucifer charges him with a yell, sending them both through a pane of glass. It momentarily breaks the momentum of the fight as they sprawl in the shards. 

“Why?” Amenadiel demands, picking himself up out of the mess. “Why did you have to use _her_?”

Lucifer laughs.

“Ohhhh,” he chortles. “_Now_ I get what this tantrum of yours is really about. It’s about _Maze_. You _like _her.” Lucifer chuckles, breathy and dismissive. “Well I mean, I don’t blame you, brother. She is a _wild_ woman in the sack.”

Amenadiel head-butts him, and it makes Lucifer reel long enough for Amenadiel to pick him up and slam him back down on the table. Lucifer grunts as air leaves his lungs in a rush. It’s intensely satisfying.

“If you wanted me dead, you should have had the balls to do it yourself!”

He drags Lucifer up, punches him again, and Lucifer stumbles back onto his knees.

“Please,” Lucifer scoffs, wiping blood from his nose. “You’re the one who’s been using pawns from the start. Linda, Malcolm, huh? Now the detective!” Lucifer sends a fast, vicious right hook that Amenadiel is just a bit too slow to dodge. “You’re a coward!” Lucifer spits at him.

The floor isn’t quite laying flat. Amenadiel wonders why Lucifer designed it to tilt like that. It’s incredibly distracting, but through the dizzy discomfort of considering the spinning room, he latches onto what Lucifer had said.

“Chloe?” He echoes. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about!”

“You always were a lousy liar,” Lucifer says, and he throws Amenadiel into the shelf of booze bottles.

Glass shatters. He’s drenched in alcohol. It burns in his bleeding wounds; the alcohol fumes waft into his eyes. He groans and tries to rise as Lucifer stalks across the room towards him.

“You justify it all, don’t you?” Lucifer says darkly. “Claim it’s all done in the name of our Father, but it’s for _your_ sake, brother.” Lucifer grabs Amenadiel by the shoulder and hoists him up. Amenadiel wavers on his feet. “And they call _me _the prideful one,” the Devil sneers, drawing his arm back for another swing.

“Enough!”

It’s Maze’s voice, sharp and angry, and they both turn to look at her.

“I’m the pawn. You _both_ used me.” She glares at Amenadiel, and he recoils. “You know what?” she says, and withdraws her Hell-forged blades. “Here. Kill each other.” And she puts them on the table with a clatter.

Her piece said, she turns and stomps away.

For a beat, neither of them move, but then Amenadiel meets Lucifer’s eyes. They both look away, ashamed.

Amenadiel feels battered in a way that isn’t merely physical. He steps away from Lucifer and, seeing that the couches have been spared the shower of glass, settles heavily onto one.

He hears Lucifer sigh behind him.

“Great. Now where do I get a drink?”

Amenadiel listens to Lucifer pick through the broken bottles, muttering to himself about the waste. 

“What did you mean?” Amenadiel asks. “About Malcolm?” It seems the easiest part of the conversation to deal with at the moment. 

“You’re still here?” Lucifer says pointedly, glancing over his shoulder at Amenadiel briefly before going back to picking through the mess. He bends and finds the jagged lower half of a bottle that has a bit of liquid left in it. He tips it back.

“Pleh,” the Devil complains, spitting. “Bloody glass shards.” Lucifer lobs the bottle towards the other end of the disaster area, and it shatters loudly.

“What I mean,” Lucifer says angrily, still turned away from him. “Is that you raised a little psychopathic sycophant. He's murdered... oh, let me think... three or four people, now.”

“What?”

“Oh, yes indeed. Started with his former partner to pin a nasty little crime on him, then began killing children playing at _make-believe_ because he thought it would – he thought -”

But Lucifer exhales in a hard breath and doesn't finish. Amenadiel supposes Malcolm's motivations don't matter. His mind reels all the same with the weight of what Lucifer is telling him.

Angels are forbidden from killing humans, and this – it feels like it's too small of a step away from that sin. Amenadiel's throat feels tight with shame. 

He swallows, trying to dislodge that lump. 

Lucifer leaves him, sparing him any parting shot - which itself speaks volumes of how upset Lucifer is as well. The elevator doors slide shut, and Amenadiel is alone with the wreckage of the penthouse and the shambles of his plans laying around him.

He touches his bruised chest, feeling his ribs, relieved that nothing seems broken. He wonders, again, whether or not he really would win in a fight with Lucifer, if the archangel held nothing back. He isn't sure, and it's a frightening thought.

He thinks of the thousands of times he had brought Lucifer back to Hell before. The Devil had always gone with only token complaints. Lucifer had never fought him, not really, not even when his protests had become genuine. With the insight he's taken from Dr. Martin, Amenadiel knows it's because Lucifer had wanted to please their Father and do his duty. Find redemption through service and obedience. 

Amenadiel wonders if it ever would have happened, if Lucifer hadn't abandoned Hell on his own terms.

A small, dark, trembling part of him thinks: no.

Amenadiel scrubs his eyes, trying to push away these thoughts. He has to find Malcolm. Lucifer may have an idea on where to start looking. With half a thought, Amenadiel slows time and slips out through the balcony, making his way down in something closer to a fall than a flight, and wending his way into the club.

Lucifer stands with his back to the bar, ringed by police officers.

A bullet hovers in the air in front of his chest.

And Lucifer is merely looking at it with resignation. He isn't moving out of the way, even though for all Lucifer could know, Amenadiel merely paused time to fly away. 

“What are you _doing_?” Amenadiel demands. 

Lucifer sighs. He tips his head back, his long throat on display as he swallows. He stretches his hands behind him and drums them, frustrated, on the surface of the bar.

“What does it bloody _look_ like I'm doing?” Lucifer snaps, still not moving out of the way of the projectile. Chloe is there in the ring of officers, too, Amenadiel sees. Her gun is drawn on Lucifer as well – what _had _he done to provoke this response? - but from her body language, it looks as if she's trying to stop the other officer from firing. It's much too late for that, as the bullet slowly making its way through the air can attest.

Amenadiel slips between the officers, grabs Lucifer by his suit jacket, and drags him away from the bar.

“Brother, stop!” Lucifer tries, and when Amenadiel scoops him up and spreads his wings, he yelps and adds a dark - “Don't you _dare_-”

Amenadiel takes them to a nearby rooftop. Lucifer awkwardly leaps away from Amenadiel instead of waiting to be set down. He stumbles several paces back, putting distance between them. It's raining, and the cool drops are pleasant on his bruised skin.

“Right,” Luci blusters. “Can we _not _tell anyone that you just carried me in your arms like a baby?”

A joke to deflect. Amenadiel won't allow it this time.

“What were you trying to accomplish in there?” Amenadiel demands. 

Luci puts a cigarette in his mouth, flapping his hands in an exaggerated shrug. “A good death?” he offers. “Or at least a nice and messy one. But then you had to come and ruin everything, like always.”

He watches Lucifer try and fail to light the cigarette.

Lucifer grumbles his frustration and turns, glaring at Amenadiel as if Amenadiel's to blame for the weather as well.

“Why'd you swoop in and stop it?” Lucifer asks. “Wouldn't let someone else send me to Hell, is that it?”

Amenadiel looks away. 

“Well guess what, brother,” Lucifer continues. “You don't _need_ to kill me. Because I'm _done _here.”

Lucifer drops his hands, disgust and disappointment rolling off of him in waves. The blood and bruises from their earlier quarrel stand out against his pale skin. The rain slicks his hair to his scalp. 

Amenadiel can't remember the last time he'd seen Lucifer looking this defeated, and it sits uneasily with him.

“I've had my fun on Earth and... there's no reason for me to stay anymore. You win. I'll go willingly. Please. Just.” A brief glance upwards before Lucifer's eyes drop. “Take me back to Hell.”

Words that Amenadiel has been longing to hear for _years_.

Amenadiel's stomach twists, shame and regret thick on his tongue when he says: “No.”

He sighs. Lucifer's eyes narrow in disbelief, and Amenadiel has to turn away.

“You don't... want to take me back to Hell?” Lucifer says, his incredulity a prickly weight to bear. “The one _bloody_ _thing_ you've wanted this entire time? Did I punch you in the head too hard?”

“Maze was right, Luci. We used her. Used Malcolm. People have died because of us.”

“Because of you, you mean,” Lucifer corrects him, and it burns, knowing that he's right.

Amenadiel chose to raise Malcolm. He can blame Lucifer for driving him to that point, but the act... and everything that followed...

That guilt was Amenadiel's to bear.

“Yes, because of me,” he admits. 

Lucifer stares at Amenadiel expectantly. “Right...” He says, but there's confusion in the word, and Amenadiel -

\- He has a memory of Samael, in the early days of Heaven, when the fundament of the Silver City could be coaxed into new shapes by touch alone. He remembers finding his little brother pulling up piece after piece, making a hole, as if he thought he could eventually reach the bottom and poke through.

“Samael, you must stop doing that,” Amenadiel had chastised him, looking at the mess. 

“Right…” Samael had said, an agreement, but a request for more. Sam had had faith, then, that his older brother would know best.

Amenadiel wonders when it was precisely that that faith broke; how it is that Lucifer can look at him the same way now. It makes the humility of this confession easier to bear.

“Brother, somehow, I lost sight of the bigger picture,” Amenadiel explains. “Of the cost of my actions and – just, how _truly selfish_ they were.”

Lucifer licks his split lip, watching Amenadiel with a caged expectation of more.

“But Luci,” Amenadiel explains. “My eyes are wide open now. And I need to make this right.”

“Do you know, I think this side of you's actually scarier than the angry one?” Lucifer says. It's a joke to deflect, again, and Amenadiel doesn't even acknowledge it.

“I need to find Malcolm. And I need to send him back to Hell.”

Saying it out loud... Amenadiel knows, more than anything else, that that has to be his priority. It is _his fault_ that people are dying.

“Will you help me, brother?” Amenadiel asks.

Lucifer smiles humorlessly. 

“One last bit of punishment on the way out,” he agrees, his expression darkening with seriousness. “It sounds like fun to me.”

Dimly, it's nice to know that Lucifer will go back to Hell, too, once this mess is sorted. 

The tension that had been stretched between them seems to dissolve in the rain. It doesn't feel like he's fighting with Lucifer anymore – that they're on the same side again. 

It would be comforting if there weren't more pressing matters.

For now, Amenadiel just hopes he can send Malcolm back to Hell before anyone else is hurt.

~*~

There's friction, of course. Almost immediately. And, if Lucifer is to be believed, chaffing as well.

“No, but I _can't_ go finding mortals in wet Armani. Honestly. You had to go and scare Maze off, didn't you? She'd've been great at this.”

So Amenadiel takes them to the penthouse again. Officers are still poking through the building – easy to avoid in the sluggish flow of time, but they sour Lucifer's mood all the same. While Lucifer fusses with his hair and finds a suitable change of clothes, Amenadiel wrings out his jacket and puts it back on. 

“Let's _go,” _Amenadiel says.

Lucifer sighs, trailing his fingers over his suit jackets, even though he's already changed.

“Bullocks. I'm going to miss this wardrobe. Right. Where to, then? Not like we can stay here,” Lucifer says, gesturing at the scavenging police force.

“My office, maybe?”

“Ah, yes, of course, _Dr. Canaan_,” Lucifer says bitterly. Amenadiel's eyebrows bounce upwards in surprise and Lucifer scoffs. “Yes, of course I figured that one out. Clever of you, in a dickish way.”

Lucifer steps closer to him and puts an arm over Amenadiel's shoulder, leaving room for Amenadiel to extend his wings.

“Shall we, then?”

It's slightly awkward to fly with Lucifer holding onto him like this, but Amenadiel knows better than to try and scoop Lucifer up again. He's sure he'd get elbowed in the throat if he attempted it.

~*~

They discuss their plan – or lack of plan, and in bickering with Lucifer, Dr. Martin stumbles upon them.

Amenadiel sits on her couch, side by side with Lucifer, and endures the chastisement she hurls at him.

“Do you have any idea what kind of ethical position you've put me in?” she demands, the betrayal she feels easy to read on her face. It sparks a new shame through Amenadiel. He knows the oath she's sworn to upload, and knows the ways in which he'd manipulated her into breaking it.

More means to an end. There are quite a lot of those piling up.

Amenadiel shifts unhappily, and is glad when her comment about starting a new life sparks an idea for Lucifer.

Amenadiel is all too glad to leave.

~*~

They interrupt a funeral, which Amenadiel hates to admit is somewhat fun. Working _with_ Lucifer, instead of against him, is such a breath of fresh air. The banter comes back to them easily, and the hostility fostered over the last few years sloughs away. 

Amenadiel thinks Lucifer is relieved that his rebellion is approaching a peaceful end. He will return to Hell once Malcolm is dealt with; resume his duties, as he was tasked to do. He will serve their Father once more.

Amenadiel doesn't say any of this, of course. He knows better.

But still. It brightens his spirit to know that, not only will he himself be returning home soon, but that Lucifer has come around to accepting his place _without_ Amenadiel having to force it out of him.

Perhaps, the Devil is maturing.

The funeral director gives them a lead, which Detective Espinoza furthers. Tommy Campolongo’s warehouse is full of armed thugs, and, in theory, is the next place Malcolm stopped. 

Amenadiel moves to seize time, and is surprised when Lucifer stays his hand.

“What do you say we skip the time slowing shenanigans, hmm?” Lucifer asks playfully, and Amenadiel frowns.

“What about your mortality situation?”

“Well, it's kind of a_ non-_sitch when the Detective's not around. I'll explain later. But for now, why not just, hmm, enjoy the moment?”

The Devil's grin is full of mischief. His hand on Amenadiel's shoulder is a warm, friendly weight. The camaraderie feels nice, and Amenadiel finds himself smiling.

“After you,” he offers. 

“Lovely,” Lucifer purrs. He turns back to the waiting mortals. “Right, I should warn you -”

Someone fires at Lucifer but, braced for it, it only punches a small sound of discomfort out of the Devil. Good to know. 

“This is hardly a fair fight,” Lucifer finishes, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket.

And then they wade in.

It isn't a long fight. Amenadiel is shot a couple of times, but now that he knows what to expect, it's merely unpleasant instead of incapacitating. 

When he sends the last of the humans flying, the grin that breaks across his face is irrepressible.

“And to think,” Lucifer says, putting his hand on Amenadiel's shoulder once more, his delight at this easy victory infectious. “We wasted all those millennia fighting!”

The reminder ripples through them – that this _isn’t_ their relationship - and the moment breaks.

Amenadiel clears his throat.

“We still need to find Malcolm.”

“Absolutely,” Lucifer agrees quickly. 

Amenadiel looks at the sprawling warehouse.

“You know, if we split up, we’ll cover more ground.”

“Okay,” Lucifer agrees easily. “But! No hogging all the fun if you find him first – deal?”

“Deal,” Amenadiel says. There’s weight in the word; it’s a promise, a vow that Amenadiel takes seriously. But even with their history, he doesn’t hesitate in giving it.

Amenadiel heads into the warehouse and hears Lucifer follow, splitting off in the opposite direction. 

The place is a massive, sprawling exercise in obstructed views and unlabeled boxes. It makes sense, for the illicit nature of Tommy’s business. Idly, he hopes Lucifer doesn’t get distracted poking through and consuming the contents of any of those boxes.

He thinks about what he’ll do when he catches up to Malcolm. He can’t kill the man, much though part of him wants to. He’ll have to put his faith in human authorities. Or, perhaps, drop the man on an abandoned island somewhere. Strip him of his tools and means of contacting the outside world and let him live out his days in isolation.

Amenadiel will talk it over with Lucifer. He’s sure the Devil will have some ideas on what to do.

The pipes beside him gush out a cloud of steam. 

Amenadiel ignores it and keeps moving forward. If Malcolm isn’t still here, they’ll have to find and speak to Tommy. He imagines the kingpin of this place has hidden himself somewhere in the middle of this labyrinthine sprawl. Amenadiel navigates the rows easily. This is, of course, nothing compared to Hell.

Thinking of Hell makes him think of Mazikeen.

Her anger at him had been righteous. He had used her. He had _hurt_ her.

He remembers the way she had called his name as he had fled the bedroom. The look on her face, when he had caught her wrist - the blade in her hand damning.

Or had it been? Would she have actually done it?

Amenadiel isn’t sure.

He’ll have to ask –

The knife sinks into his gut in a hot wave of agony. It seems to come out of nowhere, but then Malcolm side-steps out from behind a pillar.

“Wow. I mean _wow_,” the human gloats. “I could tell it was something special, but I had no idea that was gonna work.”

Malcolm has the demon blade sunk into him nearly to the hilt, and when he twists it, Amenadiel feels that curved edge slice and burn through him. He can’t help the pained moan that slips from him.

Malcolm grins.

“But you never know until you try,” he continues blithely, turning the knife with sadistic glee while Amenadiel chokes on the agony. “Got to say, you don’t look so scary now, Amenadude.”

“Oi!” Lucifer’s voice calls over. “What part of ‘no hogging’ don’t you understand?”

Malcolm withdraws and Amenadiel collapses, fingers trembling around the hilt of the blade still inside him. He is dimly annoyed that Lucifer would think any of this was intentional.

Hot blood spills over his hands where he tries to stymie the wound. His insides slide against each other as he moves, the blade so impossibly sharp that every breath causes more injury. 

Amenadiel can feel the catastrophic damage. 

It’s a mortal wound. A painful, slow way to die, but Amenadiel –

He knows he’s dying.

Malcolm runs away and Lucifer moves to chase after him, pausing to look back at Amenadiel, and then double-taking at the sight of him.

“Bloody hell!” Lucifer complains, abandoning the chase to come and kneel at Amenadiel’s side. “There you go, spoiling my fun again.”

Amenadiel exhales shakily.

“Leave me, and go _get_ him,” he orders. 

Amenadiel doesn’t know why he thought it would work. When has Lucifer _ever_ listened to him?

“You know how much I hate being in anyone’s debt. I figure if I save you now, that makes us even, right?” Lucifer says. His fingers find the wound and Amenadiel cries out. The spot pulses hot and cold. A Hell-forged blade. Amenadiel grits his teeth.

“Besides,” Lucifer says, and Amenadiel can hear the thin bravado in his voice, the concern. “It’s...it’s just a flesh wound. Hardly can see what you’re whining about.”

He meets Lucifer’s eyes, but Lucifer drops his gaze, fixated on the handle that juts, quivering, from Amenadiel’s stomach.

There are things Amenadiel wants to say to Lucifer, now that he knows this is probably his last chance to do so.

It all sticks on his tongue, though. Pride, he supposes. He supposes Lucifer was always right about that being Amenadiel’s sin.

But then Maze is there. Maze, insisting that she will handle this situation. Maze, who convinces Lucifer to leave.

It’s for the best, Amenadiel thinks. _Someone_ has to stop Malcolm.

The mistake of resurrecting the man weighs hard on Amenadiel.

_He’s been killing children_, Lucifer had said, and Amenadiel has no reason to doubt him. Malcolm had been in Hell for a reason. Amenadiel should never have –

“Come on,” Mazikeen says. She braces his wound with one hand and withdraws the knife. It’s all Amenadiel can do not to scream at the pain of the blade shifting inside him, sliding out of him.

The demon clamps her hand over the fresh pulse of blood. Without waiting for him to catch his breath, she hauls him upright.

Amenadiel _does_ cry out at that. His legs tremble under him, but at Mazikeen’s glare, and supported by her grip on him, he makes his legs hold his weight.

He can endure this, he thinks. A bit of penance before the end.

Mazikeen starts marching him back through the facility. He makes himself move, one foot in front of the other. He thinks forward to his death. Perhaps, his soul will make its way back to Heaven. He will suffer the humiliation of his failures and defeat before his siblings, before Father. Maybe that would be just.

More likely, Amenadiel thinks, he is heading for Hell.

After all, Hell needs an angel. And with the mistakes Amenadiel has made – with the sins he’s committed – who better than himself? 

“Amenadiel!” Maze snaps, close to his face, and he makes himself concentrate and keep moving.

They go through a door and the sunlight is punishingly bright. He squints against it – he’s losing track of things -

And then Maze’s hands are picking him up. The change in position rockets through his middle and he moans.

Time distorts. Not his doing, for a change.

The sunlit sky becomes the interior roof of a car. Vaguely, he hears the car doors slamming; the engine coming to life.

“Don’t you _dare_, Amenadiel. Hold on,” Maze barks at him.

“Mazikeen, I’m sorry,” Amenadiel tells her. “You were right… you were right to be angry. I’m sorry –”

“Shut _up_!” she growls.

So Amenadiel does.

He watches Los Angeles smear across the windows. Maze is either driving very fast or the blood loss is getting to him. Probably both.

He could pray, he thinks. He probably should.

He starts to move his hands into position, but Maze slaps them down, hard enough to sting.

“None of that. You’re _not dying_, Amenadiel.”

He supposes she’s right – he doubts prayer will do much good at this point.

Amenadiel closes his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them again, it’s because Maze is roughly parking the car in the garage under Lux. 

She helps him out of the car. Or forces him. It’s somewhere in between the two.

In the elevator up to the penthouse, she has to hold him up. His strength is leaving him in a steady trickle that no amount of pressure can stop. 

They crunch across the mess left behind from his fight with Lucifer. Everything stinks of booze. 

“Just hold on,” she says again, dropping him into the couch.

Amenadiel groans with pain.

“Enough, Mazikeen,” he pleads, grabbing her wrist as she moves towards his wound again. There’s nothing she can do to stop this and he’d rather bleed out in relative peace, without further painful prodding. “I’ve made my peace with death, whether I go to Heaven _or _Hell.”

“I know exactly where you’re going,” she says, snatching her hand back from his lax grip. “_Nowhere_. You’re staying right here. Now _shut up_ and let me help you.”

He lets his hands fall limp to his sides.

She pulls up his bloodstained shirt. It sticks to his skin a bit but Amenadiel doesn’t really feel the pull. It’s such a small pain, next to the throbbing agony of his insides.

They both look at the wound.

It’s bad. He’d known it was bad, but seeing it –

“There’s nothing you can do,” Amenadiel tells her gently. “It would take something divine to heal me.”

He means to impress on her the impossibility of his recovery. He hopes this will give them a quiet moment before the end, where he can apologize, and she can believe him. Some gentleness before he heads down to Hell, to serve and suffer as he deserves.

But Maze reaches for a small tin box on the table, and of all the unlikely things in creation, she withdraws a small, vibrantly white feather.

It glows with divine power. Amenadiel can feel the warmth of it from feet away.

“You took that from Lucifer?” Because how else could she come to have an archangel’s feather?

“I kept it a secret. I thought I could use it to get us back home.” She laughs ruefully and looks away. This feather was her way out. Her autonomy.

“And you’d give that to me?” he asks. It doesn’t escape him, the forgiveness this represents. It’s a far cry from the angry Maze of yesterday, dropping her blades before them, telling them to kill each other.

Either she hadn’t meant it or she’d changed her mind.

Despite the pain, Amenadiel feels something tender and hopeful unfurl through him.

“Believe me, I don’t understand this either,” she says.

And before Amenadiel can thank her, she presses the feather to the wound.

The divine glow blossoms into an outpouring of light. The intent to heal opens all the power coiled inside the little thing, and Amenadiel groans as that power reaches into him. He can feel his organs knitting together, and it’s an overwhelming blend of agony and ecstasy. It subsumes all else, and when the light fades from the penthouse, from inside him, unconsciousness grabs a hold of him like Tiny’s meaty paws and pulls him under.

Amenadiel sleeps deeply.

His dreams are tangled and emotional, and when he wakes at last, disorientation makes him feel dizzy for a moment. He hears the crisp clack of dress shoes on tile. Glass tinkling. He sits up and sees Lucifer picking through the ruin of his bar.

“Ah,” Lucifer says. “Sleeping on the job?”

Memory rushes back.

“Luci, we still have to find Mal-”

“Malcolm, yes,” Lucifer interrupts. “That’s dealt with. It’s old news, really.”

Malcolm, who was killing people. Malcolm, who had stabbed – Amenadiel yanks up his shirt, remembering the wound. His skin is smooth and even the memory of the pain is fading fast. 

“Where’s Maze?” he asks, half expecting her to saunter out of a shadowy corner and rub in the success of her plan. But she doesn’t emerge.

“Well, I was gonna ask you the same question. Perhaps your snoring drove her away,” Lucifer remarks. He finishes pouring his drinks and picks them up, wandering over and offering one to Amenadiel.

He takes the glass gladly. 

“I spoke to Dad,” Lucifer says. Casually. As if that was simply a thing he did.

“Excuse me?” Amenadiel asks, shocked.

“Yeah,” Lucifer says, fiddling with his glass. “I offered Him my services in exchange for-” He glances away, sniffing. “Well, that doesn’t really matter.” Lucifer exhales in a long sigh and turns back to Amenadiel. “He accepted.” 

Amenadiel swallows. Lucifer settles himself heavily into the armchair across from him.

“He replied to you,” Amenadiel says. It isn’t a question, but Lucifer answers him anyway.

“Mmm,” he hums an affirmative, but then caveats. “Well, not in words. But His message was clear.”

“And what _does_ Father want?”

Amenadiel looks at the glass in his hands. He’d been sure. He’d been so sure that he was on his way down to Hell. Perhaps this is why Father has spoken to Lucifer. Perhaps this is why Lucifer is being so kind.

“Someone’s escaped from Hell,” Lucifer says.

It’s… one of the last things Amenadiel would have imagined him saying, and he glances up. Lucifer gestures at him. “Must’ve seen a window of opportunity whilst you were incapacitated. I think He wants me to bring our jailbird back.”

“That’s it?” Amenadiel says. It’s… such a small task, and not the sentence he’d been expecting. “Well, it shouldn’t be too hard to track down a single errant soul.” He laughs a little, relief a heady drug.

But Luci doesn’t laugh with him. 

The Devil clicks his fingernails against his glass nervously, and he takes a too-deep drink. He isn’t meeting Amenadiel’s eyes.

“You’re afraid,” Amenadiel realizes, his smile melting away, brow crinkling in confusion.

“Hmm,” Lucifer grunts, low in his throat. He doesn’t look at Amenadiel. “Damn right I am.”

“Right, but you’re _never_ afraid. Who could possibly scare you, brother?”

Amenadiel thinks of the beasts that prowl through the outskirts of Hell; monstrous and hungry. He thinks of the behemoth guarding Lucifer’s collection.

Lucifer still won’t look at him.

“Lucifer,” he prods, and Lucifer’s dark eyes finally dart over to him. The fear in them is foreign and unsettling. A weight settles low in Amenadiel’s belly. “Who escaped Hell?”

A long pause, and Amenadiel knows it isn’t one of the mindless beasts. It couldn’t possibly be – not for a response like this. His heart sinks with dread.

“Mum,” Lucifer confirms. 

Lucifer finishes his drink in a long swallow and rises, going back to the ruined bar to search for more.

Amenadiel listens to the clatter and crash of glass being shifted and discarded. His hands feel numb around his own tumbler. 

The glass slips a little in his hand, and he tightens his grip reflexively, catching it before it can fall. He looks down at the disturbed surface of the whiskey, and then brings it up to his mouth.

It burns, and tastes appalling, as all of Lucifer’s favorite liquors do. The heat stretches out inside his newly healed stomach. 

“Mom – ” Amenadiel starts, but he can’t think of what to say next.

He remembers, thousands and thousands of years ago, Her ejection from Heaven. The silence that had settled like a suffocating blanket afterwards. The absence of Her light.

“Did you… did you see her?” Amenadiel asks.

“No,” Lucifer says, sighing at the futility or his search. He stills. “Dad just showed me Her open door, and then He sent me back to Earth.”

“Wait, you were in Hell?” Amenadiel says, turning around to look at Lucifer properly.

Lucifer sniffs.

“Momentarily, yes.”

“And God sent you back.” 

Lucifer sweeps his hands down himself in an encompassing gesture. A ‘here I stand, so obviously, yes’ sort of move.

Amenadiel swallows hard.

Lucifer had been in Hell, and God _sent him back to Earth_.

Amenadiel had been assuming, based on a command given to him _once_, eons ago, that it was his task to see Lucifer back below every time he rose to Earth.

His skin prickles with apprehension. God had sent Lucifer back to Earth.

Had Amenadiel been wrong this whole time?

Shame and doubt tighten inside him, and he feels a lump forming in his throat.

Amenadiel feels adrift. He feels _wrong_. 

“She’ll need a body,” Lucifer says, and for a moment, the words make no sense at all. “If She’s coming up from Hell, it’d be easiest for Her to piggyback up on a falling damned soul. It’s how the demons always did it. So.” Lucifer claps his hands. “I figure we can check hospital records, or police reports – see if we can get together a list of people who ‘miraculously’ recover from mortal wounds, or got resuscitated, ‘near-death’ experiences, all that rot.”

Amenadiel clears his throat and makes himself focus on the topic at hand. 

“There have to be a lot of those. And a big planet to search through, especially with you wingless.”

“No, brother. I’m sure She’s coming to LA. I imagine She’ll want to _have words_ with me for Her time in captivity.”

Lucifer paces, all long limbs and nervous energy. There’s a dark stain all along the side of his dress shirt. Dried blood, Amenadiel thinks.

“Luci… how exactly did you ‘deal with’ Malcolm?” Amenadiel asks.

“Hmm? Oh, the Detective shot him,” Lucifer says absently. “Quite expedient, that.”

“But – what about the Pentecostal coin you gave him?”

Lucifer flashes him a brief smile, full of teeth.

“Burned up when Dad pulled me out of Hell. No, brother, Malcolm is back where he belongs.”

Which is _not_, evidently, where Lucifer belongs.

Amenadiel finishes his whiskey and sets the empty glass down on the table. 

“So,” Lucifer says, unaware of the turmoil Amenadiel finds himself in. “I’ll start with the police records; you can start with the hospitals.”

~*~

They compile a list. Amenadiel isn’t sure he agrees with Lucifer’s insistence that Mom will have arrived in LA, but it’s a place to start, at least.

More likely, Amenadiel thinks Mom will find them in Her own time. Or perhaps skipped Earth altogether and headed straight back to Heaven to, as Lucifer so delicately put it, _have a word_ with their Father.

They finish talking to a six-year-old child that had briefly drowned, dismissing her from the list of possible candidates for Mom’s host body.

“Children,” Lucifer shudders as they leave the suburban house. The child’s confused parents close the door quite firmly as they retreat. “Why are they always so _sticky-_fingered? And why do they always have to touch the Prada?”

He whips his handkerchief from his pocket and begins wiping off imaginary prints.

“Who’s next?” Amenadiel asks. Should he pop up to Heaven? Give them a warning? Perhaps. 

Lucifer sighs and withdraws the printed list. It’s more crossed out lines than not at this point. Amenadiel eyes the few names remaining and that uneasy feeling intensifies.

“Dorothy Washington, 87, momentarily flatlined during pancreatic surgery.” He folds the list neatly and puts it away. “She’s the last one from Cedars-Sinai; should still be in the recovery ward. Shall we?”

“Why don’t you go on ahead?” Amenadiel says. “I’ll catch up.”

Lucifer quirks an eyebrow as he climbs into his corvette.

“If you’re going back to Lux to check for Maze, _again_ – ”

“I’ll catch up,” Amenadiel says more decisively, turning and walking away.

He hears Lucifer muttering an unflattering assessment, the words lost under the rumble of the engine he turns the car on and drives away. 

Amenadiel steps into the shady cover of a tree and slows time.

It’s… oddly a struggle to do so. He has to take a long breath and truly focus. It’s as though time is resisting his control. 

He shakes his head, _makes_ time obey, and spreads his wings. For the first time in years, Amenadiel flies back to the Silver City.

~*~

Amenadiel lingers at the gate, in the placid, milling crowd of newly arrived souls. It doesn’t quite feel right to step through. Amenadiel doesn’t feel like he’s earned the right to return. Not yet. 

He hides himself in the back of the crowd and watches Uriel give the welcoming speech with sincerity and grace, as if he hasn’t said those words a million times.

Everything here feels calm. Uriel is behaving as he always has, with none of the alarm or discombobulation that would certainly be evident if Mother had stormed the gates.

Which means Lucifer is right – Mom is on Earth. And if She’s on Earth, it makes the most sense that She would be heading towards Lucifer.

Amenadiel takes one last fortifying breath of Heaven’s air and spreads his wings.

As he slips back through the barrier, he has the oddest feeling that Uriel had spotted him. But he pushes the thought away. It’s not as though anything would come of it even if the archangel _had _seen him.

~*~

He and Lucifer finish the list without any success, and it’s one more failure on top of an already daunting pile.

Amenadiel watches Lucifer as he drives them back to the penthouse. Why had God wanted Lucifer on Earth? Why had He never corrected Amenadiel when Amenadiel had sent Lucifer back to Hell? Had it been some sort of test, or lesson? Amenadiel thinks of all of the times he’d told Lucifer that if he didn’t listen, he would have to answer to God. Lies to keep the Devil in place. It had all felt so justified at the time.

“You’re staring,” Luci observes, and Amenadiel shakes his head and turns away. 

How could Amenadiel have been so wrong about… _everything_?

His wings ache from the tension he carries with him.

~*~

In the precinct, cleaning up an unexpected mess that Lucifer has created with his blood, time slips away from Amenadiel completely. 

The keys that an officer had been tossing to himself hit the ground with a clatter. The room fills with phones ringing, people talking, and Amenadiel stares at the fallen keys in disbelief. He reaches for time and finds it… distant. It slips through his fingers like water, and the harder he tries to grab it, the more it resists.

Dread makes him feel ill.

“Hey, hey!” the officer calls, spotting him.

“How did…?” Amenadiel splutters, for a wild, improbably moment thinking that, somehow, this human had countered his powers, as Chloe counters Lucifer’s invulnerability.

But the man is no one special.

“What the hell are you doing in here?” the officer demands.

Amenadiel blinks. Shakes his head.

“I’m sorry,” he says faintly. “I, uh… I must have gotten lost.”

Slowly, he walks around Chloe’s desk. The sample of Lucifer’s blood must be in there, somewhere – proof of divinity lying in wait like a bomb.

But Amenadiel either has to leave or blatantly show divinity himself.

“Good night,” he mutters, stepping past the officer and heading back out of the precinct.

~*~

He walks home. Walks, instead of flies, because he doesn’t dare risk spreading his wings when the chance of being seen is so high.

In his living room, surrounded by the erotic art that he’d never bothered to get rid of or replace, Amenadiel reaches for time.

It’s there, but so faintly. It’s such an effort to grab ahold of it. When he relaxes his grip, he’s sweating and panting, limbs shaking with fatigue.

His wings ache. He feels _weak_, and it’s…

It’s _terrifying_.

Amenadiel presses his hands together; for the longest time simply breathing, listening to the rasp of his breath sawing in and out of a too-tight throat.

But then he prays.

_Father_… _please. I’ve tried. Please – please_…

Amenadiel drops his hands and rubs his eyes.

He doesn’t know what to ask for.

He doesn’t know what he deserves.

~*~

Mazikeen returns and, for a moment, things feel right again.

He remembers how warm she had been, how much she had cared; pressing her stolen feather to his side to heal him.

But she isn’t back. Not really.

There’s a closed-off distance in her eyes when she looks at him, and when she tells him - “I needed to get away from Lucifer. And you,” - it feels like her blade is sinking into him all over again.

Amenadiel stiffens his spine and swallows.

“I need to figure out where I fit in in this world,” she says. “And to do that, I need some space. From both of you.”

The rejection hurts. 

“Yeah,” he blinks and looks away. “No, I mean, I was... feeling the same thing, you know? I think some distance between us might be… a good thing.” He nods, trying to convince himself.

Mazikeen offers him a tight smile.

When she walks away, it feels like she’s taking a piece of him with her.

~*~

Amenadiel tries to distract himself from thinking about Mazikeen. He finds a quiet spot and tosses pebbles in the air, slowing time to catch them before they fall, just to reassure himself that he still can. 

And for a moment, time obliges him, slipping into his control easily.

He reaches out a hand to collect the stones. They fall, just short of his fingertips.

Amenadiel hadn’t released time intentionally. He hadn’t felt his hold loosen at all.

When he reaches for time again, the place it should be is just… gone. 

~*~

Amenadiel pours through his collection of medical and psychology books, looking for anything to explain the way he’s feeling. He doesn’t expect a human reference book to cover the loss of angelic powers, but bits and pieces of divine truths have found their way into the human world over the years. Maybe there’s _something_. _Something_ to explain what’s happening to him, other than –

Linda finds him while he’s scouring through the useless material.

“Linda,” he greets. 

“Surprised to see you’re still coming in. I mean, after all, this is a real facility for real therapists with real patients.”

There’s a deep thread of anger running through her words. He winces and turns away.

“Unfortunately, I can’t talk right now, Linda. I’ve got some research to do.”

“Oh, sure, I bet. Learning more about psychiatry? Or is it time to switch it up? Be a lawyer maybe. Astronaut.”

Her smile is bright and humorless. She barely comes up to his shoulders but he has no doubt she’d be happy to rip him to pieces if she could.

“I understand,” he says, giving her the curtesy of his attention. He owes her that much. “You’re upset that I told you I was a therapist.”

She laughs; a bitter, sarcastic sound. 

“Maybe you are one,” she mocks. “Cause your intuition’s _uncanny_.”

Amenadiel sighs. He doesn’t want to deal with this on top of everything else.

“Linda, listen. I did what I had to do, all right? Now, you wouldn’t understand this, but I was dealing with matters of great importance. I didn’t have a choice.”

“Yes, you did,” she snaps back, fierce and irrefutable. “You _used _me. You didn’t _have _to do that.” She glares at him, and the shame he feels at the truth of her words makes the pain in his wings intensify. “I’m used to my patients lying to me. _Not _my colleagues. Not my _friends_. I confided in you. Trusted you. And you betrayed that trust.”

Amenadiel swallows.

“It is difficult to explain, but things have been… very trying for me.”

“Mm-hmm,” She says, not wavering. “Maybe if you didn’t think so much about yourself and more about how you treat others, things wouldn’t be so _trying_.” She moves to the door but hesitates, turning long enough to deliver a scathing parting shot. “It’s called karma. Might want to research _that.”_

She tries to slam the door but is stopped by the wrinkled welcome mat. She kicks it flat and closes the door indignantly.

It should be funny, but it isn’t. Her words echo through him like a struck gong. 

His eyes catch on an object drifting up in the gust of air made by the closing door. 

A feather. A dark, familiar feather. Amenadiel catches it in his palm with a small gasp.

He turns the feather over in his fingers, but it’s lifeless, limp. Like a bird feather. Amenadiel can’t feel any divinity in it at all.

The pain in his wings sharpens and he clenches his fingers around the edge of his desk so hard that the wood buckles.

He doesn’t want to look. He doesn’t want to see them, doesn’t want his fears confirmed.

But he’s not quite that much of a coward.

His wings emerge with a sickly feeling of spindly, weak muscles. It’s not the fluid motion he’s used to. The bones seem to creak and protest.

Worse are the feathers.

Amenadiel glances at them and has to look away. The image is seared in his mind. The small patches of naked skin exposed where his feathers have started falling out. The feathers themselves seem to be losing their dark luster – they’re _gray_.

Hastily, he puts his wings away. More feathers drift down with the motion, and Amenadiel picks them up, one by one, moving slowly and hyperfocused by the shock he feels.

He clutches the feathers, feeling the dry barbs crackle and break under the pressure, and has to brush them off his palms to get them to fall into the trash can.

Amenadiel stares at them blankly for a moment - disconnected from how the feathers could possibly belong to him, how this could be _happening –_

\- before he stumbles to his knees in front of the trash can and throws up on top of them.

~*~

Amenadiel sits on the floor, back against the wall, and thinks.

His hands shake where they’re draped on top of his knees. The room smells like vomit but he can’t bring himself to care.

God is taking his wings from him. His powers. His strength.

Amenadiel can feel his divinity leaving his body inch by inch, and he nearly weeps. 

He has failed in his duties. He has sinned, over, and over, and over. Of _course_ God is casting him down. What did he think he deserved?

_You’re just as bad as me, brother_, Lucifer says to him in a distant memory. _Pride is your sin, too_.

_You used me_, Maze says, the hurt a palpable presence.

He thinks of the trail of bodies that Malcolm left behind. Children, Lucifer had said. Amenadiel’s fault – all of it, Amenadiel’s fault.

God had returned Lucifer to Earth. God hadn’t wanted Lucifer in Hell at all, and all of the times Amenadiel had forced Lucifer down, all of the suffering he knows he heaped upon his brother’s back – it hadn’t been _necessary_. It had been Amenadiel’s choice – not God’s command.

How could Amenadiel have been so wrong about _everything_?

His insides shudder, and he feels his wings wither even further.

~*~

The sun sets.

Amenadiel watches it from his place on the floor. When the last rays of light are extinguished, he forces himself up to his feet. 

Everything feels heavier. Like the gravity in the world has changed. It pulls his shoulders down and makes each step a trial.

The light is still on in Dr. Martin’s office, and he hesitates in the hallway for a long time, simply looking at the slice of illuminated carpet outside her door.

~*~

Apologizing to Linda doesn’t _fix_ anything, even if it had felt like the right thing to do. Amenadiel knows that nothing has changed; can feel it even before he strips off his shirt and stands before his mirror, bracing himself for another look.

His wings stretch out, small and ragged and pitiful. The barren stretches of featherless flesh look raw, and what feathers remain are ashen gray. He feels the muscles straining with even this slight movement. The bones feel thin and brittle. 

Amenadiel pounds his fists against the wall and _howls_ with anguish. 

The right wing gives out first, drooping down like a rotting tree branch, until the muscles and tendons don’t respond at all anymore, and separate from his back. 

It’s surprisingly painless. The wing falls to the ground with barely any noise.

Amenadiel looks at the separated limb for a long time, nausea roiling through him.

When he bends to pick it up, the left wing follows suit, pulling away from his skin with a small, organic sound.

Amenadiel braces his hands on the wall, feeling diminished, and desperate, and ashamed. He squeezes his eyes tightly shut and, for a time, merely breathes.

When he feels in control enough to deal with his mess, he picks up the wings. He will need to burn them, he thinks in a detached way. He looks at the limbs like they had belonged to someone else, his fingers trembling so hard he nearly drops them. They seem to disintegrate more as he holds them; his once magnificent wings turned rotten and twisted and small.

He deserves this horror, too, he knows. 

Amenadiel feels the weight of his mistakes; all of the decisions he made out of selfishness and self-righteousness. Each of his sins press him down, down, down.

And he falls.

-The End-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "LB, did you post these 30k words as one chapter instead of splitting it up because you were being stubborn about changing the chapter count again, or because you were afraid no one would want to read a story that runs parallel to canon?"  
"Yes."
> 
> Other notes: Amenadiel has been such an interesting character to try and really get into and figure out. His motivations change and evolve, and some of the (arguably) most important things that happen to him as a character happen off-screen. The steps leading up to his fall, and the fall itself, are the changes that shake Amenadiel out of his self-righteousness and really make him evolve as a person. The process to get him to recognize that he's been wrong, and that he *should* be humbled - it's hella interesting stuff (at least to me). 
> 
> Plus, it was kind of a wild exercise to rewatch Season 1 and treat Lucifer as a side-character rather than the star. Man, does that boy have charisma.
> 
> (One final bit of trivia - the person that maces Amenadiel in the face? Absolutely, that is Allison from "Patrick the Bartender is Not Paid Enough For This Shit.")
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
